


a million dreams is all it's gonna take

by elizaham8957



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, I don't know how the hell to tag this, I've been saying I'm gonna finish this fic for forever so maybe this will actually motivate me to, Ice Dancing, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Minor Braeden/Derek Hale, Olympics, Stiles and Lydia are ice dancers, competitions, is it a virtuemoir au? like basically, is there a tag for 'this fic is completely self indulgent'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26175424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: Since the day she stepped out onto an ice rink for the first time in her life, Lydia's dreamed of winning Olympic gold. She's worked towards that goal every moment since, determined to get there one day, prove to the world she has what it takes to be the best of the best in ice dancing. But when her partner leaves her high and dry on the eve of her Olympic season, suddenly all those dreams come crashing down.Luckily, Lydia doesn't give up easily. And her coach happens to have a plan that could make or break her career.Enter one Stiles Stilinski.
Relationships: Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 26
Kudos: 46





	a million dreams is all it's gonna take

**Author's Note:**

> Why hello Stydia fandom, long time no see. 
> 
> Okay listen. LISTEN. I know it took me like three years to write this fic. I know I abandoned the stydia fandom for Jonerys. I know and I’M SORRY. I honestly was never going to finish this but then I watched Spinning Out on Netflix and fell back on my figure skating bullshit and really the idea of letting this sit unseen in my drafts forever made me sad. Imma be real with you, this is my last fic for these two, and honestly it’s my magnum opus of Teen Wolf writing so that’s probably a good thing. So here you go. My Stydia swan song. 
> 
> I have a substantial amount of this fic finished but the next four chapters have incomplete sections, and I genuinely have no idea when I'll finish them. I'm working on a multichapter for Jonerys right now and I am TERRIBLE at having two wips at the same time, so as to when an update will come-- your guess is as good as mine. I'm hoping having this out there will motivate me to get the other chapters cleaned up and finished in a relatively reasonable time frame, but I can't make you any promises other than this will be done eventually. (I hate abandoning stories, so yeah, it may take me three years, but I can guarantee it will AT SOME POINT get finished.)
> 
> I started writing this right after the Olympics in 2018 and it very quickly became HEAVILY influenced by the gold-medal-winning Canadian ice dancers Scott Moir and Tessa Virtue who I love with my whole heart. You don't need to know anything about them to understand this (though I would recommend watching their programs, as they're mad talented and all of Stiles and Lydia's routines are based off theirs) but know there are a lot of references to them in here, especially in the later chapters. Idk, PyeongChang happened and everyone thought they were in love but now they're dating other people and it's weird, and THIS is probably weird, but I don't want to go back and change it all so WHATEVER. Do me a favor, pretend we're still in 2018, okay? Way better than this shitshow of a year anyways.
> 
> Finally— I am, clearly, not an Olympic ice dancer. I’m not even an ice dancer at all. My skating expertise extends to spending a Friday night at the Frog Pond on Boston Common and skating around in circles with my friends at Christmastime. My sources for this were Wikipedia, Johnny Weir and Tara Lipinski’s commentary during the winter Olympics, the Scott and Tessa reality show, and the infinite number of VirtueMoir interview videos I have watched on YouTube. Please take all information in this with a grain of salt, and do not consult me if you want accurate information on ice dancing. Like, I tried my hardest, guys, and I do hope it’s pretty believable, but creative liberties were taken with schedules and locations and training regimes so that the story would work. It's fiction, y'all. Don’t quote me on any of this, alright?
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy, if you're reading this, and if you are I would love to know what you think, so drop me a comment. I''m stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter if you want to find me!

The most aggravating part of this entire  _ shitty  _ disaster, Lydia thinks, is that she really didn’t see this coming. 

She should have seen the signs, picked up on them earlier, she thinks. She should have sensed how tense and frustrated Jackson had been lately, his anger at both her and their skating increasing in the past few months. She should have realized he was about to do something desperate, because she knew he wanted that gold medal as much as she did. 

Regardless, that doesn’t stop her from getting angry.  _ Really  _ angry. She’s  _ seething  _ as she stares at Jackson, but he seems completely unfazed by the fact that if it were physically possible for smoke to come out of her ears, it would be happening right now. 

“What do you mean, you’re  _ leaving me?”  _ she demands, because she heard him when he said it, but this feels too much like a sick joke for her not to double check he’s serious. 

“I mean I’m leaving you,” Jackson says, as if the fact that her partner of ten years is just abandoning her five months before competition season starts is not a big deal. 

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Lydia responds, hands perched on her hips, gaze deadly. Jackson narrows his eyes, like he’s not sure why she’s having such a hard time getting this. 

“Why would I joke about this?” Jackson asks. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lydia responds, tone venomous. “Because it’s five months until competition season starts, and, also, it’s an  _ Olympic season  _ this year?” She crosses her arms, eyes still fiery. “You realize that, right?” 

“Of course I realize that,” Jackson says, and now his tone is steely, biting. 

“Then could you please explain to me  _ why  _ you are leaving your partner?” she spits back. “Don’t you  _ want  _ an Olympic medal?” 

“Of course I do,” Jackson retorts, his tone bordering on dangerous. “Why the hell do you think I’m leaving you?” 

Lydia freezes at that, taken aback, but Jackson continues, eyes angry. “I want that Olympic gold more than anything, and clearly, I’m not going to get it with you.” 

Her jaw drops at that.  _ “Excuse  _ me?” 

Jackson makes a face, like he’s unimpressed by Lydia’s failure to grasp this concept, before he continues. “We missed the Olympics in 2014, and I’m not letting that happen again,” he says, fixing her with a glare that suggests it’s  _ her  _ fault they missed it. “I was talking to some coaches in London when I was there last month, and a better offer than you came along. I’m going to train with them, get a new partner, and then get that gold.” 

“You’re going to skate for  _ England?”  _ Lydia asks, incredulous. Jackson just nods his head. 

“I have dual citizenship,” he informs her. He fixes her with a look again, his eyes cold and hard. “If I want to win that gold, I need to cut out some of the dead weight in my life.” 

_ That  _ finally shocks her into silence. She watches, frozen, as Jackson walks away, and suddenly it’s like she’s eighteen again, sitting in the kiss and cry and seeing the scores come in as she realizes that Sochi is  _ not _ where she’ll be getting that coveted gold medal. Her ice dance partner that she has spent the last ten years with, the two of them learning each others’ strengths and weaknesses, leaning on each other,  _ trusting  _ each other— he’s just leaving her on the side of the road like she’s garbage, like she’s  _ nothing,  _ like the last decade of their lives has meant absolutely nothing. Like suddenly, she’s not good enough to share his dreams with anymore. 

And  _ then  _ she gets angry again, because dammit, she wants that gold medal. 

Jackson has already disappeared down the hallway, leaving her frozen like a deer in the headlights, so when the anger finally comes rushing back in again, she feels her legs move of their own accord. Her coach is in the other rink, where she and Jackson are  _ supposed  _ to be, working with the other ice dancers, but she doesn’t particularly care about their progress enough to stop herself from barging in. 

Derek can already tell what happened, she knows, just by the look on his face. He sighs, crossing his arms, still leaning against the boards as he turns away from Scott and Allison, who are running through a step sequence on the ice. 

“I tried to talk him out of it,” Derek immediately says, defensive. 

“What the  _ hell?”  _ Lydia counters, ignoring Derek’s excuse. Scott and Allison stop skating, both of them gliding over to the edge of the rink, concern etched on their faces. Braeden, their technical coach, shoots her husband a look before turning back towards the other team she’s working with, giving them her attention. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Derek rebuts. “It wasn’t my idea.” 

“Obviously,” Lydia snaps. “But that doesn’t change the fact that it  _ happened.”  _

“What happened?” Allison asks, pushing her hair back from her face, looking at her best friend in confusion. 

“Jackson  _ left,”  _ Lydia says, and she doesn’t even try to keep the animosity out of her tone. Allison’s jaw drops; next to her, Scott’s eyes go wide. 

“What do you mean, left?” Allison questions, and Lydia almost growls at how aggravated and alone and  _ helpless  _ she feels right now.

“I mean he  _ left,”  _ she says, crossing her arms. “He just walked out on me after telling me he’s going to train for Great Britain with a new partner.”

“But it’s three months till Champs Camp,” Scott says, his brow furrowed. 

“Yes,  _ thank  _ you, Scott, I had no idea,” she snaps, guilt immediately flooding her system as Scott recoils a little, Allison’s expression defensive as she grabs her boyfriend’s hand. 

“Sorry,” she says, lowering her voice. “I shouldn’t have snapped.”

Scott shakes his head immediately, his brown eyes full of understanding. “No, it’s fine. I know you didn’t mean it.” 

“Did he say why?” Allison asks, expression softer now, and Lydia glances angrily at her coach, wondering if Jackson had given Derek a reason before he up and left. 

“He says he wants a gold medal, and that he’s not going to get it with me,” Lydia recites, and her eyes are burning, Jackson’s words trapped in her head: _ If I want to win that gold, I need to cut out some of the dead weight in my life.  _ But she’s determined not to cry— not here, not now, not even surrounded by the three people in the world she probably trusts the most. 

“When he said that to me, I told him not to be a fucking idiot,” Derek adds, and a little bit of her anger at her coach fades. “I said that his best shot at  _ ever  _ winning gold was with you, Lydia. And I meant it.” 

“I appreciate that,” Lydia says, her words sincere before the bitterness bleeds back into her tone. “But it’s not going to change the fact that the season starts in five months, and I  _ no longer have a partner.”  _ She crosses her arms again, trying to fight out the awful, panicky feeling threatening to seep in. Missing choreography and having to change routines is  _ one  _ thing, but not having an actual  _ partner?  _ She can’t even  _ compete  _ without a partner, regardless of what shape her routines are in. This was supposed to be her year, this was supposed to be her  _ shot,  _ and now those Olympic dreams are laying scattered on the floor, just like they were four years ago, just like they’ll be for the  _ rest of her life  _ because she’s starting to think she’ll  _ never  _ be good enough to reach that level.

“I have a plan,” Derek offers, and Lydia’s head snaps up, meeting his eyes. He has a sort of grimace on his face, like he already knows how she’s going to react to this plan. “You’re probably not gonna like it.” 

“Just tell me,” Lydia says, bracing herself for the worst. Although, in all honesty, not much can be worse than Jackson leaving her. 

“I have a skater,” Derek says. “His partner broke her ankle really badly a month ago, and is out for the season. He’s not up to Jackson’s level technically, but he’s available, and he’s better than nothing,” Derek tells her. “Which is really your only other option.” 

“Please tell me the reason his partner broke her ankle was not because of  _ him,”  _ Lydia asks primly, because it’s starting to dawn on her that getting that gold medal means she’s going to have to learn how to skate with someone who’s  _ not  _ Jackson, and that’s a really terrifying thought. Sure, he just abandoned her and she really wants him dead right now— or at least severely maimed— but he’s the only person she’s ever skated with competitively, since she was barely twelve years old. It took them years to get to that level of trust and dependence and synchronization, and now she’s going to have to learn all that again with someone  _ new.  _ And that scares the hell out of her. 

“It wasn’t because of him,” Derek assures her, although his expression is beginning to border on exasperated. “I talked to him this morning, right after Jackson told me. He’s going to come in for your practice tomorrow morning for a trial run. I know it’s not ideal, Lydia,” Derek says, and his look is sympathetic. “But it’s either skate with him, or wait until Beijing.” 

“I am _not_ waiting until Beijing,” she snaps, because that’s four more years away— and sure, she likes to hope she’ll still be skating then, but the shelf life of a professional figure skater is short, and she’s not squandering her chance of getting that coveted medal. It’s been her dream ever since she was little, and there’s nothing she wants as much as to win Olympic gold. 

Well, maybe winning the Field’s medal. But that’s for  _ after  _ she’s done skating. 

“Who is it?” Lydia asks, because if there is one thing she loves more in this world than ice dancing and advanced mathematics, it’s research, so she is  _ definitely  _ going to watch as many videos of him and his old partner from past championships tonight so that tomorrow when they start skating together, she’s  _ prepared.  _

“Stiles Stilinski,” Derek says, and Lydia can’t help it— before she can stop herself, the words are tumbling out of her mouth. 

“What the hell is a  _ Stiles?”  _

“Stiles is my best friend,” Scott says, and Lydia turns back to face him, because she had honestly forgotten he and Allison were still here. “You definitely know him, Lydia. He’s been skating here for years.” 

“Is he the one I always see you with after practice?” Lydia asks, a vague image of a lanky guy with spiky hair floating through her memory. When she and Jackson share ice, it’s always with Scott and Allison and two of his other top teams, so she tends to not exactly  _ interact  _ with the other skaters he coaches. “Tall, awkward, always flailing?” 

Scott hesitates a minute, considering. “Yeah, I guess that sounds like him.” 

Lydia mentally groans before turning back to Derek, because if she’s thinking of the right guy— he doesn’t even look like he can  _ walk  _ without tripping over his feet. How the hell does Derek expect her to win an Olympic gold with him? 

“You’re right, I don’t like this,” Lydia says to Derek, arching an eyebrow at him. Derek gives her a look that conveys he is done taking her crap. Which, for the record, Lydia feels he completely deserves to be taking, because this whole situation  _ sucks.  _

“You don’t have any other options, Lydia,” Derek reminds her. “There’s no such thing as singles ice dancing, and your jumps are way too out of practice to even  _ consider  _ competing by yourself in ladies this season. So you can either skate with Stiles, or you can sit the Olympics out.” 

Lydia thinks about it for about a second— her whole  _ life  _ she’s been waiting for this chance, dreaming of winning that gold medal, smiling on national television as she steps onto the top tier of the podium, the national anthem playing in the background as people cheer. And for the past ten years she had thought it would be Jackson up there with her, but— but. Jackson doesn’t matter, not really. What matters is that  _ she’s  _ up there. 

“It’s not going to be easy,” Derek tells her, snapping her attention back to him. “You learned how to ice dance with Jackson. You’ve never skated with anyone but him. Getting a new partner, figuring out how to move together in just a few months…” He shakes his head. “You’re going to have to work your ass off.” 

Lydia narrows her eyes, crossing her arms determinedly. “I am offended by the insinuation that I  _ wouldn’t  _ work my ass off.” Her eyes stay fixed on Derek as she thinks, weighing pros and cons. She hasn’t skated with anyone else in her life since she was twelve years old. She can’t even remember how to learn a new person’s movements. And this…  _ Stiles  _ might not be good enough to get her there in the end anyways. It could be the hardest thing she ever does, and it could go and fail no matter how hard she works. 

But it could also be her shot. She’s always been one for solving problems, working through equations line by line until she arrives at the correct answer. And she doesn’t quit, no matter how ugly the math gets, or how long it takes for her to work it out. 

This will be hard, she knows it. But there’s also nothing she wants more than that gold medal. 

“So?” Derek asks, his expression almost hopeful. She sighs, internally, but she pictures that medal, and she knows it’ll be worth it. 

“So,” she says. “I’ll skate with Stiles.” 

***

The sun still isn’t up when she gets to the rink the next morning, her jacket zipped up to fend off the freezing five-a.m. air. Lydia lets herself into the deserted rink, dropping her skate bag on the ground of the locker room to shed her outer layers. She moves through her morning warm-up routine as if nothing’s different, like this is some normal day and some normal practice and not the day that she’s meeting her new partner. 

She’s determined not to let this shake her. She went home last night and watched all of Stiles’s previous skates with his old partner, Heather. She’s done her research. And while getting a new skating partner is probably the most  _ terrifying  _ thing to happen to her, especially  _ this  _ close to the beginning of an Olympic season— she’s not going to let it deter her. She’s going to work her ass off, and she’s going to skate with Stiles, and she is going to  _ make  _ it to these Olympics if it’s the last thing she does. 

She doesn’t have to  _ like  _ Stiles, she just has to skate with him. 

She’s going to make this work. 

When Derek finally enters the rink she’s got her headphones in, working on the rhumba step sequence that every pair will have to incorporate parts of into their short program. Derek had mentioned yesterday he was going to make some changes to their two programs, but this, she knows, will most likely stay the same. She nods briefly at him as he dumps his bag on one of the benches next to the boards, continuing to skate in time with the music pounding from her headphones. As long as she’s skating, she’s focused; the twisting feeling in her gut from having to meet her new partner today can’t bother her when she’s consumed by the dance, focusing on making her body move. 

She gets to the point in the dance where they had stopped choreographing last week— they should have worked out the final thirty seconds or so yesterday, but then her partner went and  _ abandoned  _ her, so the routine still isn’t finished. The music feels emptier as she stops skating, taking one final lap around the ice to cool down, as the nerves start to take over again. 

She can’t be nervous. She has to force this feeling down, she knows, not let this whole situation rattle her any more than it already has. Because if she wants that gold, this is what it’s going to take. 

She makes her way over to the boards, where Derek is waiting for her. “Good morning,” Derek says, his voice already tired, like he can tell this is going to be a  _ long  _ day. 

Lydia doesn’t return the sentiment, because there’s nothing particularly good about this morning. Instead she nods her head briefly in greeting, stretching her arms behind her, sliding to a stop right in front of her coach. She glances at the clock on the wall behind him— just about 6 in the morning. 

“Scott and Allison are in the other rink with Braeden and the others until ten,” Derek tells her, and her eyebrows raise— she can’t even remember the last time she had private ice. “I’m just with you two this morning.” 

“Well, that certainly makes me feel confident,” Lydia replies, and Derek sighs at her sarcastic tone. 

“You’re getting a new partner, Lydia,” he reminds her, and she rolls her eyes, because the notion that she could  _ possibly  _ forget that is beyond aggravating. “This is going to be a huge change for you, and I know you’re going to need extra help, today especially—”

“Okay, I get it,” Lydia snaps, crossing her arms. “But in order for me to skate well, I need to compartmentalize and pretend this  _ isn’t  _ a big deal, so can we please stop treating it as such?” 

Derek just nods, silently, and she sort of relaxes a little bit at the expression on his face. He knows her, has been coaching her since she was twelve years old— he knows how she reacts to these situations, how she puts her walls up to protect herself. Because that’s the thing— it’s not just that she’s terrified of learning to skate with a new partner, because she is. But Jackson was her partner for ten years of her life, and then he just…  _ left.  _ With no warning and barely any reason. And she’d be lying if she said that his abandonment didn’t unsettle her deeply. That tiny, nagging voice in the back of her head is louder than ever, insisting Jackson was right. 

What if she’s  _ not  _ good enough? 

“When is he getting here?” Lydia asks, surveying the rink, forcing that voice out of her mind. There’s no sign of her new partner, and she can’t tell if that’s making her anxiety better or worse. 

“Any minute,” Derek responds. “I told him to come in for six.” 

The words are barely out of Derek’s mouth before the doors to the rink clatter open, a mess of flailing limbs bursting through and into the rink. Lydia inhales sharply as Stiles rights his limbs, glancing around to see if anyone saw him trip. His eyes land on Derek and Lydia, both watching him, and she can almost see him sigh internally. 

Regardless, he makes his way over to them, marginally more graceful now, skate bag slung over his shoulder. “Sorry I’m late,” he says to Derek, eyes fixed on the older man. He isn’t looking at Lydia, and she can’t figure out if it’s because he’s genuinely apologizing to his coach or if he’s just as nervous to meet her as she is to meet him. 

_ Enough,  _ she snaps at herself. She’s Lydia Martin. She doesn’t get nervous. 

“It’s fine,” Derek says, shaking his head slightly. He turns his head so he can look at both of them, eyes shifting between his two skaters. 

“Uh, hi,” Stiles finally says, breaking the tense silence, turning towards Lydia and sticking out his hand. “I’m Stiles.” 

“Lydia,” she returns, shaking his hand back. His hand feels strange in hers, unfamiliar, his long fingers wrapping around hers, swallowing her hand whole. 

“Okay,” Derek says, arms crossed, his expression all business. “We should probably talk about this season. Lydia, get off the ice.” 

She takes her skate guards that Derek is holding out and slips them on as she steps off the rink, she and Stiles following Derek over to the bleachers facing the ice. They sit opposite their coach, and Stiles leaves a foot or so in between him and her; Lydia can almost feel the nervous energy buzzing off of him, can see how his hand is drumming anxiously on his thigh, the way his eyes are darting back and forwards, like he’s physically incapable of standing still.  _ At least he’s as nervous as me,  _ Lydia thinks, before mentally reprimanding herself again— she is  _ not  _ allowed to be nervous if she wants to win that gold medal. 

“So,” Derek begins, his expression still serious. “Obviously this isn’t an  _ ideal  _ situation, heading into the summer.” Lydia huffs in almost-laughter, because this is about as  _ far  _ from ideal as she can possibly imagine this season. “But I think you two can still do it. You’ve got a  _ lot  _ of catching up to do, and you’re going to have to work a lot harder than anyone else out there, but if you can—” he pauses, his eyes fixed on Lydia. “I think you can make it to the Olympics. That’s the end goal here.” 

“That’s only slightly terrifying,” Stiles says, but Derek ignores him, soldiering on. 

“We’re scrapping what we have of your short dance, Lydia,” Derek says, and her heart stops a little bit. “I was talking to Braeden last night, and we think that’s the best thing to do. We’ll come up with something new.”

“Okay,” Lydia says, not bothering to hide the skepticism in her voice. “So we’re not only going to learn to  _ skate  _ together in the next three months, we’re also going to come up with two  _ completely  _ new programs in that time too.” 

Derek gives her a look,  _ clearly  _ not impressed with her tone. “Well, you can either do that or you can wait for next season, Lydia,” he says. “You don’t really have any other options.” 

“We have a short dance that’s practically finished, Derek,” Lydia reminds him. “We can’t use  _ any  _ of that?” 

“It was designed for Jackson to skate,” Derek fires back. “I’ve been working with both of you since you were  _ twelve.  _ I know how you both skate, and what’s going to work for you, and I know that routine is  _ not  _ going to work for Stiles.” He pauses, staring at Lydia again, expression deadset. “And I know if you want to win, you need a routine that’s going to compliment both of your skill sets.” 

Lydia bites back her tongue, looking down, because she knows Derek’s right. “Anyways,” he continues, seemingly unperturbed by Lydia’s doubts. “I think we can all assume this is going to be a hard season for both of you. You don’t just have to worry about Scott and Allison now, you’re going to have to deal with Jackson and his new partner. So we need to set you apart from everyone even more. Your programs really have to be showstoppers.” 

“Any ideas on that?” Stiles asks. “The short dance Heather and I were working on wasn’t necessarily groundbreaking either.” 

“Well, the pattern for this season is the rhumba, and the rhythm is the samba, cha cha, or any other latin dance rhythm, which means  _ everyone  _ will be skating to latin pop music,” Derek says. “So what do you think of skating to rock and roll instead?” 

Lydia raises an eyebrow, but it’s moments like  _ this  _ that make her feel like an idiot for ever doubting Derek, because  _ this  _ is why he’s such a fantastic choreographer and coach. “Can we do that?” Lydia asks, a smile playing at her lips. “Because that’s sort of genius.”

“As long as the music fits the pattern tempo, there’s no rule saying you  _ have  _ to skate to latin music,” Derek says. “But it’ll give you an edge above everyone else who  _ is  _ skating to the same songs.”

“It’ll make the judges take note even before we start skating,” Lydia agrees, nodding. 

“That’s what Scott and Allison are doing, isn’t it?” Stiles asks, and Derek shrugs, as if to say  _ sort of.  _ “Scott said they were skating to some pop song. I kind of thought he was joking.” 

“What songs were you thinking?” Lydia asks, glancing over quickly at her new partner. This seems manageable enough right now— while they’re off the ice, the only thing Lydia has to worry about is program plans, all logistics problems. She can tackle one thing at a time, at least, and the prospect of a new  _ program  _ over a new  _ partner  _ is much more appealing. 

“Sympathy for the Devil,” Derek starts, and Stiles grins. “The Rolling Stones song. And Braeden thinks that the rhumba step pattern would work really well to the riff from Hotel California. And then something else, probably. I’m going to work with a music editor this week and get it pinned down.” 

Lydia nods, glancing over at Stiles again quickly, taking in her new partner’s expression. “What are you thinking for the free dance?” Stiles asks, and Derek grimaces. 

“I’m not. I thought we could start with the short dance, since the elements and patterns are a lot more structured.” He pauses, eyes bouncing back and forth between the two of them. “I need to see how you two move together before we come up with a free dance. Hopefully in a week or so we can sit down and solidify concepts. So if you two have any ideas, let me know.” 

“Alright,” Lydia nods, running her gloved fingers up and down her thighs. Now that she’s not moving, the cold is starting to seep into her body again, her upper thighs lacking the extra layer of insulation that her legwarmers are offering her calves. 

“I still don’t know exactly what the music is going to be for the short program, but I thought we could start out with the rhumba pattern, since you both already know it.” Derek looks between them again, and Lydia nods, her heartbeat accelerating as she realizes they’re going to have to get on the ice in a minute. The rink has always been her second home, a place where she felt comfortable and in control. But now… now, the prospect of stepping out on the ice is terrifying to her in a way that is  _ completely  _ unfamiliar. 

“We’ll just see what sections work best for you guys, and fit with the music. Sound good?” Derek asks, standing up, and they both nod as they stand. Lydia notices Stiles’s fingers drumming on his thigh nervously again— he seems physically incapable of sitting still,  _ ever.  _ Lydia’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but she can at least empathize with his nerves— she doesn’t think she’s felt this anxious about getting on the ice since Nationals before Sochi. 

“Alright, Stiles, skates on, warm up,” Derek instructs, walking back over to the boards. Stiles nods wordlessly, reaching for his bag as Lydia hovers next to their coach, hesitating before taking off her skate guards and stepping back onto the polished surface. 

“Relax,” Derek tells her, and it’s less of an instruction than a reassurance, as he rests a hand on her shoulder. “I know this is hard,” Derek continues, his voice low enough that just Lydia hears him. “But I know you can do it.” 

She looks up to meet her coach’s eyes, and she can tell from Derek’s expression he sees all the fear and apprehension in hers. He doesn’t say anything else, just looks at her with that stoic, almost secretive little smile, and she exhales, wishing she had as much faith in herself as Derek seems to have in her. He releases her shoulder, holding out his hand for her skate guards, and she steels herself, reaching down to pull them off and hand them over to her coach before she steps back on the ice. 

She’s already pretty much warmed up, so she runs through the rhumba as best she can remember it— the parts that aren’t in her previous short dance aren’t as clean, are a little fuzzy in her memory, but her body remembers the movements, her edges biting the ice as she moves through the pattern. Stiles steps out onto the rink not much later, but Lydia tries to ignore him, focusing only on her movements, not letting the panic building in her stomach control her. It’s strange to do the pattern dance without a partner, because that’s how it’s designed to be skated, but she moves through it regardless, doing the best she can until Derek joins them on the rink, hands shoved in the pockets of his heavy jacket. 

“You ready?” he asks as both of them skate to him, gravitating towards their coach out of habit. “It doesn’t have to be perfect yet. Just do the best you can.” 

In other circumstances, Lydia would probably laugh at how easy and understanding Derek is currently being—  _ it doesn’t have to be perfect?  _ She doesn’t think she’s  _ ever  _ heard her coach say that before in her ten years under him. She’s not going to complain, though, because she currently feels sort of like throwing up, even if she’s doing a  _ fantastic  _ job of looking calm and collected on the outside. 

“Just take it from the beginning of the pattern,” Derek says, pulling out his phone to start up the music, a generic latin pop song filtering through the speakers in the rink. 

Lydia finally looks over at Stiles, her heart pounding, and he offers her a hand, eyes trained on hers. Lydia’s breath catches— she hadn’t realized before what a unique color they are, almost amber, or whiskey, a little too light to be truly called brown. She can see in his eyes that he’s just as nervous as she is, and that calms her a little, her pulse still fluttering as she takes Stiles’s hand. 

She wonders if Stiles can hear her heart racing as he places one of his hands on her waist, her body reacting to his touch involuntarily. She’s still got her  _ Stars on Ice  _ jacket from last year on over her leotard, but she can feel the warmth of Stiles’s palm through all her layers regardless, his fingers curling around her waist, his thumb resting on the small of her back. It’s  _ strange,  _ to have someone hold her on the ice other than Jackson— she occasionally will do quick little things with Scott or some of the other male ice dancers in group numbers at exhibition shows, but something about this just feels… different. “This okay?” Stiles whispers, and she knows it’s probably sweet that he’s asking, but her nerves are still shot and her patience is still short. 

“Considering that’s how the rhumba starts, yeah,” she says, a little more bitterness in her tone than she should probably be using. He just blinks at her, those amber eyes wide, a little taken aback, before he adjusts his grip on her other hand, and Derek counts them off, and then they’re skating. 

It feels  _ supremely  _ weird to be skating across the ice with  _ not  _ Jackson, moving through a pattern she’s only ever skated with one person before. It’s sort of a culture shock, just by nature of skating— Stiles isn’t nearly as precise of a skater as Jackson is, but his edges are much deeper, and she has to adjust her own to match his, so they don’t trip over each other. They fumble through a couple sections of the dance, and they’re not as close on the ice as they should be— Stiles is sort of holding her at an arm’s length away to avoid catching her blades— but it’s not  _ horrible.  _ Derek reviews different sections of the rhumba with them once they finish, making them run through them again, clean up their footwork, get more comfortable with moving together. He switches the music over to  _ Hotel California  _ at some point, and Lydia focuses on the musicality of her skating, trying to figure out how the steps they’re required to include can fit into the music. 

By the time the clock at the front of the rink reads 10:00, Lydia’s exhausted, her thin jacket long ago discarded to the boards, gloves off as well. She wipes sweat off her brow as she and Stiles glide towards the boards to grab water, glancing up as the doors to the rink swing open, Allison’s head peeking out around them. 

“Morning, Derek,” she says brightly as she enters the rink, Scott right behind her. Their coach looks up, eyebrow quirking slightly at how chipper Allison is. Lydia laughs to herself, because her best friend's current disposition is clearly  _ much  _ brighter than her own. 

“Morning was four hours ago,” Derek responds, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face as Allison and Scott walk towards the ice. 

“Why are you in such a good mood?” Lydia asks, arching an eyebrow at the other girl. “Has Braeden been letting you nap?” 

“They wish,” Braeden’s voice sounds as the doors swing closed behind their technical coach, and she shoots her husband a quick smile before her eyes return to Lydia. “They’ve been cleaning footwork all morning.” 

“If I have to do another twizzle I’ll  _ die,”  _ Allison says, dead serious, coming to stand next to Lydia, the two other pairs they share ice with filtering into the rink as well. Allison lowers her voice as her shoulder bumps her best friend’s, her eyebrows raised. “How’s it going so far?” she asks, quiet enough for just Lydia to hear, as Derek and Braeden huddle up, probably to discuss both pairs’ progress. 

“Not horribly,” Lydia admits, shrugging. “It’s still weird, and nothing like skating with Jackson, but… it’s going okay.” 

“Good,” Allison says, her smile wide and sincere, eyes locked on Lydia’s. “There’s going to be an adjustment period, but if it’s going alright so far… that’s good.” She pauses, glancing over at her boyfriend, who is deep in conversation with his best friend. “How is Stiles?” 

Lydia almost laughs. “A  _ really  _ different skater from Jackson.” 

“Not what I meant,” Allison responds. “Have you two talked at all?” 

Lydia hesitates, realizing that they really  _ haven’t.  _ She’s been skating with this guy for the past four hours, and they haven’t said anything to each other besides the occasional “sorry” following botched footwork. 

“Not really,” Lydia says. “Derek’s had us working on the rhumba all morning. We haven’t really had time to talk.” 

“Okay, break’s over,” Derek calls, and both girls’ heads turn towards their coach. “Allison, Scott, I want to see your short dance. Stiles and Lydia, keep working on those sections of the rhumba we were doing.” 

Practice suddenly feels a lot more normal, sharing the ice with Scott and Allison like they generally do, Braeden and Derek alternating their attention between all four pairs. Lydia can just barely watch the sections of Scott and Allison’s short dance while she and Stiles skate; Braeden works with them on the intricacies of the rhumba Derek had picked out for them, and they skate to the music as their coaches call out occasional corrections, things like “Deeper knees, Lydia!” and “Hold her closer, Stiles!” cutting through the music. Braeden has them stop and go, skating with both of them interchangeably to demonstrate how to execute the movements better, and Derek watches and corrects as Allison and Scott glide around the edge of the rink, reviewing their own movements. They end their session with twizzles, and Lydia shares Allison’s sentiment from earlier by the time they step off the rink, sweaty and out of breath from skating so hard for so long. 

It’s Tuesday, so Allison and she meet up with their personal trainer, Parrish, at the gym after leaving the rink, before they head to their physiotherapist, Dr. Deaton, all of their muscles being stretched out, ready to resume training tomorrow. Lydia sighs when she gets back to her apartment, throwing the power bowl she’d grabbed for dinner on the way home in her fridge before she gets in the shower. She lets the hot water wash over her skin, seep through her sweaty hair, and she forces herself to just think of  _ nothing  _ for a while, allowing the steam to relax her muscles and wipe her mind blank. No Olympics, no new partner, no new programs, no  _ nothing.  _ Her mind goes blissfully silent as she stands under the spray of water, her breathing slow and methodical, and she lets all the stressors from practice today wash away down the drain. It’s a trick she learned from her mental prep coach, Morell, to help her relax after stressful practices and competitions. Lydia always has to know everything, have everything in control, Morell has told her  _ countless  _ times before, and sometimes, she just has to let it all go. 

She feels remarkably more at peace with the whole situation as she eats her dinner on the sofa, something playing on the TV in the background that she doesn’t pay a ton of attention to. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Today was hard, and sort of awkward, but that was to be expected, she knows. Maybe skating with Stiles will turn out to be alright. They can find their rhythm, and work together, and maybe they really  _ can  _ make it to the Olympics. 

Lydia feels optimistic as she climbs into bed that night, her alarm set to wake her up for their six a.m. ice time the next morning.  _ We can do this,  _ she thinks as she tugs up the covers, eyes sliding closed.  _ We can make this work.  _

It takes about twenty minutes of practice the next morning for her to realize she is totally,  _ completely  _ wrong. 

She still has that false sense of hope as she pulls into the rink, parking her car in the near-abandoned lot. Derek’s Camaro and Allison’s Toyota are usual sights this early in the morning, but there’s another car parked up front she doesn’t recognize— an old, faded blue Jeep that looks like it’s about ten miles away from falling apart completely. The door swings open as she locks her car, and she blinks in surprise as Stiles hops out, skate bag slung over his shoulder. 

He really  _ shouldn’t  _ be able to ice skate, she thinks, based on his constant flailing and general lack of control over his limbs. 

He catches sight of her as he slams his car door shut, the whole Jeep shaking a little bit with the force, and his eyebrows immediately raise, his mouth quirking up a little as he waves slightly, waiting by the side of his car for Lydia to pass him. “Hey,” he says as she walks over, his voice echoing through the empty parking lot. She forces a smile in return, repeating her mantra from earlier in her head:  _ we can do this. We can make this work.  _

“Hi,” she responds, the two of them falling in step as they walk towards the doors of the rink. 

“You ready for today?” Stiles asks, and she can hear the hint of nerves in his voice. She just nods, expression dead-set, determined not to show how nervous  _ she  _ is inside.  _ It’s like riding a horse,  _ she thinks.  _ Don’t let him sense your fear.  _

“It’s weird to be here before the sun’s even up,” Stiles continues, and Lydia gets the sense he is the sort of person who is prone to nervous rambling. “Generally I’m in the later group. I never get here this early.” 

“Lucky you,” Lydia says, shooting him a slight smirk. “I’ve had practices this early since before we started competing on the senior circuit.” 

“Yeah, well, you and Jackson were a lot better than Heather and I,” Stiles says with a little shrug. She looks over at him sharply, sort of taken aback by the bluntness of his statement. There’s no animosity in his tone, though, no look of resentment on his face. She doesn’t know how to respond, because really, it’s  _ true,  _ so she just keeps silent. 

They don’t talk again until they’re out on the ice, Derek and Braeden gliding out to meet them. Stiles chats amicably with Scott in the locker room, although he sits down next to her to lace his skates up. They take to the ice in silence, one of the first teams out on the freshly-resurfaced rink. 

“Good morning,” Allison says to Lydia as she skates up to her best friend, raising a gloved hand to cover her enormous yawn. Lydia has to laugh— despite the  _ years  _ of early morning practices, Allison has never  _ truly  _ adjusted. She won’t really wake up until 9, Lydia knows from experience. 

“I guess,” Lydia responds, arching an eyebrow at Allison. Derek’s few other high-ranking senior teams are taking the ice now too, four or five different pairs of skaters warming up, getting ready for a hard day of practice. 

“You know, I would generally tell you to stop being so cynical, but it is just…  _ too goddamn early,”  _ Allison says, stifling another yawn. Lydia laughs again, tugging at her scarf, responding quip on her tongue, but then Derek steps on the ice, followed by Braeden, and everyone falls silent as practice begins. 

He has music edited for Lydia and Stiles, they quickly discover, although it’s not the entire program yet, and it’s not a super clean cut. Still, as aforementioned,  _ Sympathy for the Devil  _ fades into a version of the riff from  _ Hotel California,  _ and Derek decides that they’re going to focus on the samba at the beginning instead of the rhumba today. 

_ That’s  _ when things sort of start to go downhill. 

Lydia feels like everyone in the rink has their eyes on her, even though she  _ knows  _ that’s ridiculous— she barely pays attention to the other pairs they share ice with, and right now everyone is caught up in their own skating and choreography. Still, Derek’s trying to guide them through the choreography he and Braeden had come up with last night, and Lydia feels like a bug under a microscope as they struggle through it. 

She knows, objectively, learning new programs is not easy, but this feels downright  _ impossible.  _

They seem to be incapable of getting through a single element of the dance without stumbling over each other, their footwork totally out of sync, their bodies refusing to move together. Stiles is a couple inches taller than Jackson, his legs longer than her former partner’s, and consequently his whole method of skating is entirely different than what she’s used to. His technical levels are nowhere near Jackson’s; he skates a lot less precisely, his movements more artistic than sharp and perfect, and it’s  _ messing  _ with her. She used to be able to guess where Jackson’s blades were going to be, but with Stiles, it seems like he draws out his strokes in a way that makes it  _ impossible  _ for her  _ not  _ to trip over him. 

“Careful, guys,” Derek warns again, that laid-back  _ it doesn't have to be perfect  _ attitude from yesterday completely gone. “Come on, Stiles, you’ve got to hold her closer.” 

“Sorry,” he breathes to Lydia, eyes soft and sincere. He places his hands on her waist hesitantly, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to, his touch feather-light. “Uh, is this okay?” 

Like, seriously. Has he never done the rhumba before in his  _ life?  _

“No,” Lydia says, and it’s early, and she’s aggravated, so before she can  _ really  _ consider the consequences of her tone, she snaps back, “You need to hold me  _ closer. _ Haven’t you ever done this dance before?” 

He looks a little taken aback, blinking at her in shock at the hostility in her voice. 

“You ready?” Derek calls impatiently, and neither of them have a chance to say anything before their coach is counting them in, Stiles’s grip on her still too unsure. 

His practical refusal to touch her is just another item on the long list of things setting them up for disaster. When they’re in standard dance holds, he’s mostly fine, but when Derek tells him to run his hands up Lydia’s body, rest his hand low on her hip and pull her in close, grab her leg and tug it up to wrap around his waist, he gets all nervous and fumbly, leaving room between them in a way that would definitely get points deducted in competition. It’s like he’s scared to touch her; like he thinks she’s going to break, or bite him, or both. It’s infuriating and aggravating and making this entire situation _more_ awkward. Sure, there’s no eloquent way to run your hand along a practical stranger’s inner thigh, but this is their _job,_ and touching each other in ways that normal business partners wouldn’t even dream of is sort of in the job description. 

Lydia’s pretty sure that they spend more time getting lectured and critiqued by Derek than they do actually skating, and by the time he moves onto Scott and Allison, leaving them to work through the things they  _ sort  _ of just learned, Lydia is exhausted and frustrated. Skating independently doesn’t do them any favors either, and by the time practice is over, Lydia is  _ beyond  _ done. She doesn’t speak to anyone in the locker room, stays silent through almost all of her personal training and PT. Allison texts her later to make sure she’s okay, and Lydia sighs, responding to her friend tersely before climbing into bed, hoping to god maybe this is all some horrific nightmare, that she’ll wake up tomorrow and Jackson will be at the rink, ready to finish up their short dance. 

She pulls into the rink the next morning and catches sight of Stiles’s decrepit Jeep, and her heart sinks a little at the realization that this is  _ not  _ some ridiculously bad dream. 

The rest of the week continues mostly the same— long, exhausting, fruitless days at the rink, Stiles and Lydia unable to find their rhythm, unable to move together. The opening step sequence of their routine haunts Lydia, Stiles’s slight wince as he apologizes for tripping her  _ again  _ burned into her mind. Add in the fact that she’s still reeling from Jackson’s abandonment, still trying to sort out her resentment and bitterness towards him, and she realizes that never before in her life has she  _ hated  _ ice dancing as much as she does right now. 

_ Sympathy for the Devil  _ comes on the radio on her drive home from the rink on Thursday, and Lydia almost  _ screams.  _

She  _ hates  _ it, but when she steps out of practice Friday afternoon, it feels like she can finally breathe again. She always enjoys days off, just because she gets to sleep in and relax, but she’s been looking forward to  _ this  _ Saturday off more than she cares to admit. 

She just needs time to…  _ process.  _

Allison seems to get that too, because she shows up, unprompted, on Lydia’s doorstep on Friday night with an overnight bag and a handle of vodka, a grin playing at her lips. 

“God, I love you,” Lydia exhales, letting her in. 

“Seeing as we both actually have a day off at the same time and your ex-partner is an absolute fucking  _ asshole,  _ I thought we should probably get drunk and watch cheesy rom coms together and eat enough ice cream that our nutritionist would be  _ pissed  _ if she knew,” Allison says, walking into Lydia’s living room, dropping her bag unceremoniously on the sofa. “And if you need to cry to someone about how much your life sucks right now, I’m here and I will never tell a soul.” 

Sometimes, Lydia wonders what she could have  _ possibly  _ done in a past life to deserve someone as fantastic as Allison. 

They settle on  _ The Notebook,  _ which is decidedly not a rom com, but is still Lydia’s favorite movie, and it has Ryan Gosling  _ and  _ James Marsden, which is an added bonus. Allison finds orange juice in the fridge and lemonade mix in the cupboard to mix with the vodka, and before Lydia can blink Allison is offering her a glass. 

Lydia downs it in about two sips. 

They leave the lemonade and the handle of vodka on the coffee table, just barely paying attention to the movie. By the time they’re at the part where the plot actually starts getting sad, they’re both sufficiently intoxicated, and the movie is long forgotten in exchange for discussing more  _ pertinent  _ topics. 

Namely, Jackson. 

“What a _jackass,”_ Lydia spits, not for the first time this night, words slightly slurred and still full of venom she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to purge from her tone. She’s definitely had _way_ too much to drink, judging by the actual amount of liquor left in the bottle in front of them, but if she can’t drink her troubles away _now,_ when her entire life is falling apart, when can she? And Allison is nodding along supportively, letting her rant.

“We were _fantastic_ together,” Lydia continues, letting the bitterness that’s been accumulating all week finally come spewing out. “We came in second at the goddamn Worlds last year. To a pair that _retired_ this season. We had _nothing_ in our way this year. And he just… he just _leaves?”_ She looks in outrage towards Allison, like her best friend has the answers. 

“Screw him,” Allison agrees, taking another long sip of her drink, her glass clattering on the coffee table as she slams it down in anger. “And… and… who even goes to skate for  _ Great Britain  _ anyways? When’s the last time  _ they  _ won an Olympic ice dancing medal?” 

“No one has since Torvill and Dean,” Lydia supplies.

“Ugh,” Allison groans, shaking her head. “I don’t care who his new partner is, Jackson will _never_ be Torvill and Dean.” She pauses, like she’s thinking. “What was that, Lillehammer?” Lydia nods, and Allison’s eyes light up again. “See!” she says emphatically, as if this proves her point. “That’s… twenty years ago! _More!”_ Lydia laughs as her friend struggles to do mental math, but Allison just shakes her head, eyes fixed on Lydia. “Who’s even there to _train_ him?” 

Lydia’s head shakes back and forth, the lights of her living room blurring a little bit. “No, he’s… he’s in Michigan. Canton. He’s training  _ here.”  _ She pauses, not  _ exactly  _ wanting to admit she instagram-stalked his new partner, but too drunk to stop herself from telling Allison. “His partner’s American too. Dual citizenship.” 

“Ugh, what a _coward,”_ Allison spits. “That’s such a cop out. Of course they’ll make it to the Olympics on their team, they’ve got no competition. No one actually _in_ Great Britain stands a chance against American skaters.” 

Lydia knows Allison’s generalizing, but she’s not exactly wrong, either. Great Britain’s ice dancing programs as of late are nowhere near the US’s, and it’ll be astronomically easier for him to qualify for the Olympics there, unlike in the US, where there are dozens of viable teams more matched in his skill set that will be competing for the spots. 

“This just _sucks,”_ Lydia sighs, finishing off her drink, placing the empty glass on the table with more force than necessary. “Now I have to… learn to skate all over again. It’s like I’m ten years old, starting _over.”_

“I know,” Allison sighs, and she moves closer to Lydia, wrapping her arms around her. “But hey. You’re gonna figure it out. You’re gonna be  _ great.  _ If anyone can do it, it’s you. You’re  _ amazing.”  _ Allison fixes her with a blissful smile, her eyes a little glazed, her expression conveying that there is nothing she believes more in the  _ world  _ than the words that just came out of her mouth.

“You’re so drunk,” Lydia giggles, and Allison smiles even wider, squeezing Lydia tight. 

“Mmm,” she hums, her eyes squeezing shut. “So are you.” Lydia laughs again as Allison drops a kiss on her cheek, opening her eyes to meet Lydia’s again. “But I mean it. You are amazing. And… and you’re going to figure it all out, and whip Stiles into shape, and win that gold.” 

“Ugh,” Lydia groans, because she had almost forgotten about her new skating partner. _ “Stiles.”  _

Allison pauses, her eyes wide, as if to say  _ let it all out.  _ “I don’t know, Allison,” Lydia admits. “I don’t know if we… we can do it. Go to the Olympics. If we make it through practice without…  _ tripping  _ over each other, it’ll be a miracle.” 

“It’s just awkward, you know?” Lydia continues. “I’ve barely _met_ this guy and now his hands are… like, on the inside of my thigh every day. I’ve only ever had Jackson touch me, or hold me, like that while I’m skating.” Lydia snorts. “And he’s always so _flustered_ about it. I feel like we’re nine year olds, on the ice.” 

“Yeah,” Allison agrees, nodding thoughtfully. “But Stiles… is a good guy. He and Scott have been friends for  _ forever.  _ Before they started skating.” Allison’s brow furrows, and she drops her head onto Lydia’s shoulder, tightening her arms around the other girl. “I wouldn’t let you skate with another… another  _ jerk.”  _

Lydia laughs, Allison’s hair tickling her neck. “Thanks.” She pauses, leaning her head against Allison’s, letting her eyes slide closed.  _ God,  _ she’s tired.  _ The Notebook  _ is still playing in the background, but neither of them are really paying it any attention any more, the soft light from the screen making the room a little more fuzzy. 

“He might be a good guy,” Lydia amends, because, yeah, objectively, Stiles seems like a decent person. But that’s really not the most important thing, here. “But can he get me to the Olympics?” 

“That,” Allison says, “is the question.” 

It is. And it’s one that, unfortunately, Lydia doesn’t have the answer to. 

***

The days seem to pass as if someone has put her life in slow motion— practices seem longer than ever, but Lydia still feels like they have nothing done. The samba at the beginning is still disastrous, the rhumba is shaky at best, and they haven’t even begun the ending cha cha to _Oye Como Va,_ which Derek had added into their music track. It’s been about three weeks of practice at this point, she and Stiles still _barely_ speak, they _still_ can’t figure out how to move together— Lydia’s beginning to wonder if this whole thing is fruitless. If she _should_ just take the L and wait for next season, see if Jackson will see sense and come back to her after he can’t win gold. 

She’s been unmeasurably angry at him since he walked out the door and marched himself to Canton, but she's beginning to think she’s at the point where she would take him back in a heartbeat. At least  _ he  _ can skate with her. 

Lydia’s feeling about as tired as Derek always looks at practices these days; there’s a spark of hopelessness that’s sinking into her skating, and it’s making it  _ really  _ hard to push through ice time and training and physiotherapy. He’s had them both talking to their mental prep coach, but the sessions with Morell after their ice time aren’t doing anything either. Their short dance is still a disaster, their free dance hasn’t even been  _ started  _ yet, and Champs Camp is drawing closer and closer every day. Lydia’s starting to wonder if they’re even going to have two semi-presentable routines for camp, let alone two  _ Olympic-caliber _ programs. 

Lydia finds herself dreading going to practice every morning— she knows all she’s going to get is still-sloppy choreography, practical silence from her partner, and a handful of Stiles’s wounded looks when she sighs in discontent. She knows she’s taking all her anger out on him, making practices miserable for both of them, but she’s frustrated and bitter and she doesn’t know how  _ else  _ to react. For the first time in her life, she truly feels like  _ quitting.  _

Really, she should commend him on the valiant effort he’s put up so far. He still sits next to her every morning when they lace up their skates, still offers her an encouraging grin when he runs into her in the parking lot on their way into the rink. It’s like he doesn’t understand how dire this situation is, doesn’t understand that her _ entire  _ Olympic career is hanging on whether or not they can skate together. She doesn’t know if he’s insufferably optimistic, oblivious, or just plain  _ delusional,  _ but it’s getting on her last nerve. Derek keeps shooting her warning glances during practice, telling her to stop snapping at her new partner, but at this point, it’s become her defense mechanism, and she doesn’t know how to stop. It’s just… easier to take out her anger on Stiles than to think about how there is an almost nonexistent chance of her making it to the Olympics now. 

Maybe that makes her a terrible person. But she lies awake in bed at night, Jackson’s words still taunting her, and she’s really starting to believe they’re true. So tormenting her partner seems like the much more appealing option of the two, even if it’s ridiculously selfish. 

She’s always put up walls, shoved people away. At this point it’s more like second nature for her, a reflexive response, than an actual conscious decision. 

He sits down next to her after practice, just like he  _ always  _ does, leaning over to unlace his skates. “Hey,” he says, giving her a little smile— he always acts so  _ hesitant  _ around her, like he’s scared she’s going to lunge out and bite him or something. Although, she supposes, that’s not exactly a far-fetched idea, considering how practices have been going. 

She doesn’t say anything in return, just offers him a tight little smile in return that she knows doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s had a long practice with not much progress— she is  _ so  _ not in the mood for small talk right now. 

“I’m so glad it’s Friday,” he offers, finishing untying one of his skates, wiping down the blade before he puts his skate guard back on, shoving the skate in his bag. She knows he’s trying to make peace here, trying to ease some of the tension in their long,  _ exhausting  _ practice sessions, but he still won’t hold her during practice, still can’t get the choreography right, so she continues to give him the cold shoulder instead. 

He turns to look at her when she doesn’t respond, but Lydia keeps her eyes trained on her skates, refusing to meet his. “You have any plans this weekend?” he asks, his voice genuinely curious, and she can feel the vibrations of his leg bouncing up and down on the bench— another nervous tic, like how he drums out patterns with his fingers and talks too fast. 

“Plans are for the off season,” Lydia answers without looking up, putting her first skate in her bag and starting to work at the laces of the second one. “My only plans until February are winning Olympic gold.” 

Not that those plans seem like they’ll actually come through right now, but still. Maybe her words will be enough to kick Stiles into gear. Remind him of what they’re  _ really  _ here for. 

“So, no plans,” Stiles says, and she knows if she were to look at him right now, he would have one of those signature sarcastic expressions on his face. Lydia doesn’t really talk to him in practice, but she’s an excellent observer, and she watches how he acts with Scott. Those sarcastic glances are gracing his face more often than not. 

“Me neither,” he adds, tugging at his laces. “Other than sit on my couch and not move all weekend. My legs are about ready to collapse.” 

“Really?” Lydia asks snidely, eyes still fixed on her skates. “That’s so surprising, based on how practice went today.” 

Next to her, Stiles sighs; she can’t see it, because she won’t look at him, but she can hear his aggravated breath out, can sense the way his body sags next to her. “You’re not making this any easier, you know,” he says, as if all she has to do for them to suddenly be good is be  _ nice  _ to him. 

“Well, your incompetence certainly isn’t helping either,” she bites back, tone hostile. She can sense Stiles freeze next to her; he sits up, both his skates off his feet now, unmoving. It’s so unnerving that Lydia finally gives in, looking up to meet his eyes. 

She knows immediately she shouldn’t have done that, because it’s hard to ignore the hurt in his whiskey irises. 

“You know what?” Stiles says, voice harsher, less open. She blinks in surprise at his sudden shift in attitude— he seems  _ pissed,  _ which really— she doesn't necessarily blame him. 

“What?” she responds anyway, tone equally biting, though she knows it was a rhetorical question. 

“I’ve been trying to be a decent partner here. To give you the benefit of the doubt, or whatever, and work through this,” Stiles says, standing up, slinging his skate bag over his shoulder. “But if you’re not gonna meet me halfway, then I’m done. Treat me however you want. I’m sick of being nice to you for no reason.” 

“Okay,” Lydia says, raising an eyebrow in a way that hopefully conveys she does _not_ care what he thinks of her in the slightest. People’s opinions of her don’t matter. What matters is that in nine months, she has that gold medal around her neck. “Sounds great to me.”

Stiles shakes his head, refusing to meet her eyes again. “Fine,” he says, voice defeated, hand resting on his skate bag. “See you Monday, Lydia.” 

“See you,” she says, giving him a sickeningly sweet smile that is all too obviously fake. She thinks he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “screw you” as he turns away from her, pushing open the locker room doors and disappearing out into the hallway. 

It’s a rare occasion that they get the whole weekend off, but Lydia enjoys every second that she can away from the rink. She practices the choreography Derek’s been teaching them alone in her kitchen, imagining how good this dance could be if Stiles was actually willing to work as hard as she is. When Monday morning rolls around, she is ridiculously close to staying in bed, calling in sick or something, so that she’s not wasting her time at another useless practice. She knows that within five minutes she’s going to want to throw in the towel anyways— honestly, another week of this and she thinks she’ll seriously withdraw from the Grand Prix comps and just hope to god that Jackson comes back to his senses after his little Team Great Britain adventure and comes back to LA to skate with her. 

She’s right about one thing, at least. Practice Monday morning is  _ terrible,  _ long and grueling and fruitless in the most aggravating way. She’s sweaty and exhausted, muscles aching, but she honestly feels like they’ve gone backwards in progression on their short dance. 

Stiles’s sudden shift in attitude certainly isn’t helping anything either. 

Right now, for example, Lydia’s about five seconds from walking out of the rink and never looking back. Forget about Olympic gold— a Field’s medal will be just as good. And she doesn’t need an incompetent  _ partner  _ to solve the Riemann hypothesis. 

“Come on, Stiles,” Derek says, his voice tired and hoarse from shouting across the rink all morning. “You’ve got to grab her thigh, pull her in. Lydia, you should be practically sitting on his leg.” 

The two of them straighten up, disentangling their limbs quickly. Stiles’s hands drop to his side in an instant, like touching Lydia’s skin has burned him. Derek skates over to them slowly, his hand rubbing at his scruffy jaw in a way that makes it look like he’s just as aggravated as they are. 

“Stiles, you’ve got to pull her in  _ way  _ closer,” he tells them, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “This is the  _ rhumba,  _ guys. It’s supposed to be sultry.” 

“Well, it’s hard to act sultry when your partner keeps tripping over you,” Lydia says, trying (and failing) to keep the venom out of her tone. 

Stiles shoots her a glare. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t trip over you as much if you would stop cutting me off,” he bites back. Lydia’s eyebrows raise in shock— is he seriously pinning this on  _ her?—  _ but his expression doesn’t waver, his eyes fiery and determined. Gone is the apologetic, mildly wounded Stiles of last week. The guy in front of her is completely  _ done  _ with her shit. 

If Lydia wasn’t so  _ angry  _ at him still, she would sort of respect him.

“This is  _ so  _ not my fault,” Lydia shoots back. “If you actually had any  _ technique,  _ I wouldn’t spend our entire dance worried about wiping out.” 

“You can go ahead and attack my skating, okay?” Stiles says, voice louder. They’ve probably reached volumes capable of catching the attention of the other skaters, but at this point, Lydia finds the desire to take her anger out on Stiles far more appealing than keeping up appearances. Stiles’s mouth is a thin line, his eyes narrowed as he continues talking. “Have at it. But it’s not gonna change the fact that you’re acting like a spoiled diva.” 

She thinks she might  _ slap  _ him at that, but Derek cuts in, voice sounding exhausted. “Enough, you two,” he begs, shooting them both looks. They go silent immediately, looking at their coach dutifully, but Lydia can still feel the anger boiling beneath her skin.  _ Spoiled diva.  _ How dare he. She’s gonna get him back for that one later, she swears. 

“You both take five,” Derek says, and he sounds as tired as Lydia feels. “Braeden can help try to fix this when you get back. I have other teams I need to help too.” 

They both stand in silence as Derek skates away, barely sparing each other a glance as they skate towards the boards. 

“You know,” Stiles says as he grabs his water bottle, unable to meet her eyes, his tone bitter and cynical. “I would appreciate if you would stop snapping at me. I’m trying my best, here.” 

Lydia can tell he’s trying to extend an olive branch, even if it’s a half-assed one with a sarcastic tone to match, but she’s not taking it. She is  _ way  _ too fed up to forgive Stiles with  _ that  _ attempt at a peace treaty.

“Well, I would appreciate if you stopped skating into me,” Lydia retorts. “Try harder.” 

She leaves Stiles at the boards with that, skating back into the center of the rink, running their newest step sequence  _ alone.  _

Derek corners her in the last fifteen minutes of practice, skating right up to her at the boards while she puts down her water bottle. “Lydia,” he says, and his tone is warning, like he’s about to launch into a lecture. She groans, meeting his eyes reluctantly. 

“You know what I’m going to say,” he says, leaning next to her against the boards. 

“That we  _ suck,  _ and at this rate we’re never going to get to the Olympics?” she says sarcastically, because that might not be what Derek is currently referring to, but he’s definitely thought it at least once these past few weeks. 

“No,” Derek says, shooting her a look. “You’re being stubborn.” 

Lydia knew that was what he was thinking, but that doesn’t mean she likes hearing it. 

“Well, he’s being incompetent,” Lydia snaps back, and Derek sighs. 

“No, he’s not. You’re just pinning all your differences on him. You’re both at fault here.”

“Is there a point to this lecture?” Lydia asks, flashing Derek a saccharine smile. He knows her well, though, can tell her grin is completely fake, because he fixes her with a signature scowl. 

“The point is, you two aren’t going to make it to the Olympics if you don’t start  _ communicating,”  _ he says. “And I’m sick of watching both of you snap at each other all practice. So you better fix this soon— or it’s going to be too late.” 

There’s a hint of warning in his tone, but Lydia is feeling defiant, is _sick_ of everyone pretending like this is some mutual thing that is so easily fixable when it seems to her the entire _world_ is falling apart. 

“I’ll start  _ communicating  _ when he starts actually holding me for our elements,” Lydia snaps back. Derek just shakes his head, in a very  _ I-don’t-know-why-I-even-try  _ way. 

Honestly, after ten years, Lydia doesn’t really know either. 

Allison comes over Friday night with two bottles of wine and  _ Mamma Mia  _ on DVD for their once-a-month cheat day, and they drink while watching Meryl Streep dance around Greece. Allison just quirks an eyebrow when Lydia pours herself a very full second glass, and Lydia groans, dropping her head back on the couch cushions. 

“I have had a  _ hellish  _ month of practices, okay? I deserve this,” Lydia insists, taking a long sip of her wine. Allison just laughs, shooting her friend a sympathetic look. 

“Practice still not good?” she asks, finishing off her first glass. She can tell from Allison’s expression that Stiles has probably complained to Scott, who has then complained to Allison, but she still appreciates her best friend pretending she doesn’t know what’s going on. Lydia makes a face, eyes fixed on the television. 

Normally she would be opposed to talking during  _ Mamma Mia,  _ but right now they’re singing “Our Last Summer,” which no one really cares about. 

“‘Not good’ is an understatement,” Lydia mutters darkly, turning to face her best friend. “Seriously, Allison. I’m starting to wonder if we’re even going to  _ have  _ programs for Champs Camp.” 

“It’s  _ that  _ bad?” Allison asks, eyebrows raised. That part, she can tell, Allison didn’t know. Lydia nods, putting down her glass, because Allison’s expression is saying  _ let it all out.  _

“We cannot get this routine at _all,”_ Lydia starts. “I feel like every single practice we’re moving backwards instead of forwards. We keep tripping over each other, we can’t _move_ together, all of our close holds are wrong— it’s like he’s scared to touch me, or something. What?” Lydia says, stopping her rant at that infuriatingly _knowing_ look on Allison’s face. 

“Is the reason he’s scared to touch you because he’s terrified you’re going to snap at him?” Allison asks, and Lydia pauses, because— maybe there is some truth behind that. Still. Just because she’s apparently stuck with voice-of-reason-Allison over unconditionally-supportive-Allison tonight doesn’t mean she has to  _ like  _ it. 

“Maybe,” Lydia mumbles, and Allison bursts out laughing. “Whose side are you on here?” she asks, squinting at Allison. Her best friend calms down, pushing her hair out of her face, fixing Lydia with a look that is all fond affection. 

“Come on,” Allison says, pulling a face. “You know I’m on your side, _always._ But I also know you, and I know your tendencies. And you snap when you’re aggravated, and seeing as you’ve been aggravated for about a month at this point, I feel like it’s a fairly safe bet that you’ve snapped at Stiles.” 

“Well if he wanted me to stop yelling at him he should start learning the choreography,” Lydia mutters, looking away from Allison. She knows she’s being childish, but she’s just beyond done with this whole situation. She wants things back to the way they were before Jackson walked out, when she was heading into this season on top of the world, ready to win Olympic gold. 

“Lydia,” Allison sighs. Lydia turns towards her friend in mock outrage, imitating her tone. 

“Allison,” she parrots, grinning in triumph when Allison smiles, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “Seriously. It’s like he’s  _ trying  _ to make us suck. His strokes are too long, his edges are too deep for me to match, he  _ refuses  _ to hold me close, he won’t  _ touch  _ me—” 

“So basically,” Allison interrupts, taking another sip of wine, “what I’m getting is that he has a very different style of skating from Jackson, and you don’t want to get used to it.” 

“That’s not the issue,” Lydia argues, but as soon as the words are out of her mouth, she realizes… maybe it is.

Allison shrugs. “I could be wrong. But Jackson has a very distinct way of moving, which I can tell just from shared ice time is  _ nothing  _ like Stiles’s, and you don’t like change.” 

“I don’t like having a partner who refuses to touch me during the  _ samba,”  _ Lydia mutters. Allison’s expression shifts at that, like she knows something Lydia doesn’t. “What?” she immediately demands, and the look on Allison’s face lets Lydia know she’s caught something. “Allison, what is it?” 

“You can’t say anything, okay?” Allison requests. “Because Scott told me in confidence, and I don’t want him to get mad at me.” 

“Of course,” Lydia agrees easily, brain whirring as she tries to figure out what the hell this secret could possibly be. 

“Stiles used to be in love with you,” Allison says, and Lydia’s jaw  _ drops.  _ That was  _ not  _ what she was expecting. 

_ “What?”  _ Lydia says, still a little in shock. She didn’t even know Stiles  _ existed  _ until a month ago, as awful as that sounds. And he was in  _ love  _ with her? 

“He had a huge crush on you when we were all juniors, up until not that long ago,” Allison says. Lydia immediately relaxes, shooting her friend a look.

“Okay, that is  _ way  _ different than being in  _ love  _ with me,” she says. “That’s childhood infatuation. We were thirteen when we started competing as juniors.” 

“Still,” Allison says, fixing Lydia with a look. “He had a crush on you for a  _ really  _ long time, Scott said. So imagine if you suddenly had to start skating with someone you spent half your childhood thinking about.” 

“Well, I was relatively sure I was in love with Jackson for most of our junior career, and I never let that get in the way of my skating,” Lydia responds primly. Allison groans, dropping her head back on the couch cushions. 

_“Lydia,”_ she insists, but Lydia’s done with this. She knows Allison is probably right, but right now she just wants her best friend to agree with her. 

“I love you,” Allison says, like she can read Lydia’s mind. “And I am on your side, I  _ promise.  _ But I hate seeing you so miserable, so I’m trying to help you  _ fix  _ this, okay?”

“I know,” Lydia admits, because even if she’d rather have Allison’s unwavering support here, she also knows her best friend is one of a handful of people that truly care about her wellbeing. 

“Just— maybe try to see this from his point of view a  _ little  _ bit,” Allison insists. “He might not actually have feelings for you anymore, but he still looks at you like he cares a lot about you.” 

“No he does not,” Lydia protests. She’s never seen Stiles look at her with anything but apprehension and bitter anger. 

“Well, every time _you_ look at him you’re yelling, so that might have something to do with it,” Allison suggests. “But I watch you two when you’re just skating, not arguing. Trust me— he looks at you like that.” 

Lydia gives her friend a skeptical look, still not entirely believing her, but ready to let it go. Allison pauses, reaching out to take Lydia’s hand, giving her a sympathetic look that would make Lydia want to scream if she couldn’t see all the concern behind Allison’s big brown eyes. 

“Stiles is a good guy,” her best friend continues, voice gentle. “And I feel like you’re so caught up in your frustration over Jackson leaving— which is totally fair, for the record— that you’re not giving him a real chance.” 

“But we just can’t make it work,” Lydia says, shaking her head. Even if she  _ is _ being too hard on Stiles, he isn’t exactly making any effort to better their partnership on his end either. 

“Every day on the ice is like pulling teeth,” she tells Allison. “And at the end of practice, we have nothing to show for it.” 

“Listen, it’s your career, Lydia. And you can make your own decisions, I know that.” Allison puts her hand on Lydia’s shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly. “But this is your season, like it or not. It’s not like if you hate Stiles enough, it’s going to suddenly get better.”

Lydia sighs. “I know,” she says, although she doesn’t want to admit it. At this point she’s still sort of hoping she’s just caught in a super long, super lifelike nightmare that she’ll wake up from suddenly. 

“I’m not saying it’s all your fault, and I’m not saying this is an easy thing, because it’s not,” Allison says, her expression soft and sympathetic. “But maybe try to give him more of a chance. Get to know him.” She pauses, raising an eyebrow. “Have you two talked at  _ all  _ other than snapping at each other on the ice?” 

Lydia bites her lip. “No.”

“Maybe start there,” Allison suggests. Her expression sobers, her eyes growing more serious. “If you want gold, Lydia, you’re going to have to figure out how to work with him, like it or not.” 

Sometimes, Lydia really  _ hates  _ how right her best friend can be. 

***

Lydia tries to go into practice on Monday with a new mindset— she really does. She wakes up an hour early and does yoga in her living room, going through techniques Morell has talked her through for the past five years. Breathe in, breathe out. Forget about things that have happened in the past— there’s no way to change them. The only way to make sure you are the best you can be is to focus on what you do differently today. 

She’s feeling much more at peace by the time she pulls into the rink parking lot, trying to remain zen as she laces her skates up and takes to the ice to warm up. Allison gives her an encouraging smile as she and Scott step out onto the ice, Stiles right behind, talking to his best friend. 

“Stiles, Lydia,” Derek calls out as soon as he and Braeden are on the ice, the two of them diligently skating over. The rest of the teams continue through warmups and practices, completely oblivious to the pair that is center ice. 

They start with the rhumba step sequence— clearly Drek is easing them in.  _ Okay,  _ Lydia thinks as they move through the assigned step sequence.  _ This isn’t so bad. We should be closer together, but we’re not tripping over each other. It could be worse.  _

They make it through the step sequence, but then they move into the element afterwards, and everything starts to fall apart. 

Lydia hooks her leg around Stiles’s waist like she’s supposed to, all her weight on her other blade as Stiles moves into a lunge so she can sit on his thigh. But their legs aren’t aligned right, and he’s  _ too tall,  _ she can’t keep her leg hitched up while still skating backwards, and he  _ will not take her leg.  _

Allison’s words from last night ring in her head, but then his blade almost catches hers, and they stumble to a stop, limbs tangled, and her zen from this morning is  _ immediately  _ gone. 

“Come on, guys, that was sloppy,” Derek calls, skating over towards them. “We’ve been working on that for more than two weeks now. You should be able to get in and out of that hold easily.” 

Stiles and Lydia nod silently, limbs finally untangled, and Derek runs a hand over his jawline, nodding slightly. “Again.” 

Lydia turns so she’s backwards, Stiles’s hands falling to her waist as they pick up at the end of the step sequence. She moves into the transition again, Stiles’s hand shifting to her back, supporting her as she hooks her leg around his waist again. She waits for the feeling of his other hand on her thigh, but it doesn’t come— he hesitates, and she loses her balance, almost falling backwards off his leg without his additional support. 

Stiles’s hand around her waist tightens, making sure she stays upright, but it’s not enough— she’s still  _ seething.  _ “Guys!” Derek calls, clearly as annoyed as Lydia is. She turns to look at Stiles, expression murderous. 

“Stiles, would you just grab my goddamn leg?” she hisses, glaring. Allison’s advice is out the window now— she doesn’t care if he used to have a crush on her, she doesn’t care that this is _awkward—_ this is their _job,_ and he agreed to do it. If she can sit in his lap with her leg hooked around his waist, he can put his hand on her frigging _thigh_ and make sure she doesn’t fall. 

His expression immediately hardens, and he seizes her thigh, his fingers almost digging into her flesh as he holds her in place. Lydia can feel the heat of his palms even through her thick leggings, shifting slightly in his hands until she’s in the correct position for the hold. 

“There we go,” Derek says, tone unamused. “Can we try to do it like that the  _ first time  _ next time, maybe?” 

There’s a brief second that flashes through Lydia’s mind where she considers being the bigger person— apologizing, explaining that she  _ knows  _ this is awkward, but she can’t balance in this hold if he doesn’t catch her the way he’s supposed to. But then she meets his eyes again, fiery and defiant, like he’s a second away from snapping, and she decides—  _ screw it.  _

“I don’t know,” she responds to Derek, unhooking her leg, separating from her partner. “Ask Stiles if he’s actually willing to  _ touch  _ me next time.” 

Stiles’s jaw clenches in anger, but he refuses to meet her eyes. 

Practice just keeps getting worse from there— they miss their footwork, can’t get their holds right, their twizzles are disastrously out of time. They don’t even  _ attempt  _ the ending lift, because Derek is scared that Stiles is going to drop her if they try it, seeing as the two of them have made as  _ little  _ physical contact as possible since Lydia snapped again. She skates for the boards the second Derek tells them they’re done, leaving her partner in the dust.

“Progress?” Allison asks quietly, eyes wide and hopeful as she places her water bottle back on top of the boards. Lydia shakes her head grimly, and Allison’s face falls.

“No.” 

***

When Lydia wakes up the next morning, she has a text from Derek saying to come right to his office at the beginning of practice instead of the rink. Dread immediately fills her stomach as she gets out of bed, heading for the kitchen to start brewing coffee. It’s been almost exactly a month since she and Stiles started skating together, and she just knows, in her gut— whatever Derek has to say is  _ not  _ going to be good.

Allison shoots her an inquisitive look as she walks right through the locker room that morning, her friend pausing in lacing up her skates to ask where she’s going. “Derek wants to see me,” Lydia says darkly, and Allison’s eyebrows raise. 

“Good luck,” the other girl whispers, squeezing her hand quickly, and Lydia just makes a face, because she’s going to need Allison’s well wishes, she can just tell. 

Stiles gets there about a minute after her, and they enter his office together, silently. Derek is studying the whiteboard on one of his walls with a detailed schedule for every team, Braeden next to him with an uncapped marker in hand. 

“Hey, guys,” Derek says, voice already tired. “Sit down.” 

They both sit as Braeden finishes scribbling something down, talking to her husband in hushed tones that Lydia can’t make out. “I’m going to go start with the other teams,” she murmurs, a little louder, and Derek nods, leaning in to kiss her quickly. 

“I’ll be out in a minute,” he assures her, and she just nods, shooting Stiles and Lydia a look as she leaves the office that can only be interpreted as “good luck.” 

Lydia generally doesn't get nervous to meet with her coach, but her stomach is suddenly in knots as she waits for Derek to start talking. 

“So,” he says, finally taking his seat across from them. Lydia can see Stiles swallow; it gives her some comfort to see he’s as nervous as she is. 

“You two have been skating together for just about a month now,” Derek says, and Lydia just wants to scream  _ out with it, just tell us. Don't draw this out more than you have to.  _

“I don’t think it’s a big surprise that you’re  _ really  _ far behind,” Derek continues, voice still void of emotion. “And I don’t mean because you just got paired up. I mean in the last month, we haven’t gotten enough done for you to be on track to place at Grand Prix competitions and have a viable shot at the Olympics.” 

Lydia knows his words are true, but her stomach still drops a little when he says that. 

“Honestly, guys,” Derek says, voice grim. “I know this is a horrible situation, but if you refuse to work together like professionals, you’re not going to make any progress. If you want to still have a chance at getting to the Olympics, you need to get your shit together  _ now.”  _

They both blink at him in silence, a little taken aback at the bluntness of his statement. “You two are on the second rink by yourselves,” Derek continues, and Lydia’s jaw almost drops at that. “You can come rejoin practice when you stop acting like twelve year olds. Braeden and I have other teams that need our attention too.” 

_ That  _ is what truly stuns Lydia into silence. 

(Not that she was talking before, but. If she had wanted to say anything, that ability has now been taken from her.)

Derek gives them one last look before walking out of his office, leaving the two of them alone. 

“Was he serious about that?” Stiles asks, and for once, Lydia finds she doesn’t have the capability to snap at him. 

“I don’t know why he would joke about that,” she says, shaking her head, eyes still fixed on Derek’s empty chair. They find the second rink completely abandoned, whereas it generally has the higher-ranking junior teams on it at this time, so he must have been serious. They step out onto the empty ice in silence— Lydia can’t shake how weird this feels. 

The private ice, however, does very little to improve their skating. 

They go right to the rhumba, and the step sequence is almost passable, but as soon as they move out of it, setting up for their next element, they’re tripping over each other again, a flailing mess of limbs as their blades catch, or Stiles cuts her off, or Lydia turns faster than him. Lydia tries to let it go the first time, the second time, even the third, but when she’s twisted up in his limbs for the fourth time, she’s ready to scream. 

“Stop, just— stop!” Lydia snaps, trying to disentangle herself, huffing in annoyance as she  _ finally  _ breaks free. Stiles stands in place as she skates backwards, putting a little distance between them. 

“Sorry,” he says, breathless, but Lydia has  _ had  _ it, is fed up with his apologies, and she’s just… she’s done. She’s sick of having a new partner, sick of having to relearn everything, just sick of it  _ all.  _

“How about instead of saying sorry, you start actually doing the element right?” Lydia bites back, tone acidic. Stiles recoils like she’s burned him, and she can see how he’s trying to keep his expression calm, but his eyes— his eyes are too expressive, and she can see how her words have wounded him. 

“I’m  _ trying,”  _ Stiles responds, tone careful. 

“Clearly you’re not trying enough,” she snaps. “Try harder.” She knows that she probably shouldn’t say that, that it’s probably crossing a line, but she’s just…  _ so  _ frustrated. That gold medal has never seemed more out of reach before. 

Stiles’s expression shuts down at her words, his mouth a thin line, his arms crossed against his chest. 

“You know what?” he says, tone icy. Lydia blinks, a little taken aback at how aggressive he sounds— more so than his usual biting sarcasm. “I don’t need to deal with this. I’m leaving.” 

At that, Lydia can only laugh. Of _course_ he’s leaving. What else could possibly go wrong in this never-ending shitshow of a season? 

“You’re  _ leaving?”  _ she asks, turning on the ice to watch his retreating back. “Are you serious?” 

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” he retorts, turning around to face her. She doesn't say anything, just watches, arms still crossed, as Stiles shakes his head slightly, exhaling. “I was perfectly content to sit this season out when Heather got injured, okay? I was doing Derek a favor, skating with you. And I  _ know  _ I’m not up to your level and I  _ know  _ I’m not Jackson, but—“ he pauses, glancing away. “I am  _ trying,  _ Lydia. So if you’re gonna continue treating me like shit for working my  _ ass  _ off to get this dance right— I’m done.” 

“Do you think this is easy for _me?”_ Lydia retorts, her voice raising. “Because it’s _not,_ okay? I have poured every _ounce_ of blood, sweat, and tears I have into this season. This is my one shot. So when I don’t get the choreography, I _work_ on it until I do. Don’t make _me_ the villain for asking you to do the same.” She pauses, shaking her head, expression beyond fed up. “Don’t you _want_ this?” 

“Not really,” he snaps, tone still biting. “But I know  _ you  _ do. Why do you think I’ve been working so hard?” 

That stuns her into silence, her jaw slightly dropped as she watches him skate away, stepping off the ice and disappearing down the hallway into the locker rooms before she can even blink. She stands there, frozen, for a minute, the silence around her deafening. 

There goes another chance at that gold medal, shattered on the floor around her. 

She knows that probably, she should go after Stiles, but instead she walks into the main rink on instinct, like some default switch inside her had been flicked on. Scott and Allison are running their free dance, Scott lowering Allison from a beautiful lift effortlessly. Allison catches sight of her as her skates touch the ice again, and her hand goes to Scott’s shoulder, signalling for him to stop. 

“Lydia?” Allison calls across the ice, and Scott turns to follow his girlfriend’s line of sight. Derek emerges from the bleachers a second later too, as Allison glides over to the boards, stepping off the ice fluidly. 

“What’s wrong?” Allison asks, running her hands up and down her arms to return some warmth to them, immediately catching on to the fact that  _ something  _ is not right, just by Lydia’s expression. 

“Why aren’t you and Stiles practicing?” Derek adds, his tone only slightly accusatory. Lydia bites at her lip, not _exactly_ wanting to tell everyone what had happened, because she knows it does not paint her in the best light. 

“Stiles walked out,” she finally admits, keeping it short and simple. The less details, the less everyone knows, the better. 

_ “What?”  _ Derek and Scott both say in sync, Scott’s jaw dropping. 

“He just walked out?” Scott clarifies, his expression confused. “That’s so not like Stiles.” He looks baffled, like he truly has no reason why his best friend would quit in the middle of a rehearsal. Allison, however, is noticeably silent, her arms crossed and her lips pursed as she studies Lydia. 

“Did something happen?” she asks her best friend, and Lydia groans internally, sort of hating that Allison knows her so well. 

“We… got in a fight,” Lydia admits, and from the corner of her eye she can see Derek’s expression fall. Allison, however, looks like she knows  _ exactly  _ what is going on, and she marches closer to Lydia, grabbing her hand. 

“Okay,” she says, giving Lydia a look. “Let’s go talk.” She turns back to Scott and Derek, giving them both very no-nonsense looks. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Come on, Lydia.” Before Lydia can protest or anything, Allison is tugging her along, leading her back to the empty rink Lydia and Stiles are  _ supposed  _ to be practicing in. Allison plops down on one of the benches in the bleachers, and Lydia sits next to her reluctantly, regarding her friend’s determined expression apprehensively. 

“So this fight,” Allison says, cutting right to the chase. “What did you say to him?” 

Lydia plays mock- offense, eyes widening as she looks back at Allison. “Why are you assuming  _ I  _ said something to him?” she demands.  _ “He  _ could  _ definitely  _ be at fault here, okay?” 

“Yeah, he could,” Allison agrees, raising an eyebrow at her friend in a knowing manner. “But I know he isn’t, because you’re bad at dealing with feeling overwhelmed, and that boy’s been following you around with hearts in his eyes since Derek paired you up.” 

Lydia chooses to ignore Allison’s last comment, focusing instead on the beginning of her reasoning, because she’s not wrong. The truth is that Lydia is so out of her element here, practically re-learning how to skate, and she  _ hates  _ that feeling. Hates the feeling that everyone who’s put her down her whole life is right— that she’s not good enough, that she’s not cut out for this, that she can’t handle the pressure. All she wants is for what she’s best at to come naturally to her again, to not have to show up to practice every day and focus on rehashing another thing that she thought she had mastered ten years ago, because now she has a different partner and the way her whole  _ world  _ works is different now. 

Lydia sighs, finally conceding. “He apologized for messing up, and I told him to stop apologizing and start doing it right. And when he said he was trying, I told him to try harder.” 

Allison groans, resting her head in her hands. “Lydia,” she sighs, glancing up at her best friend. 

“I know!” Lydia defends. “I shouldn’t have said it. I crossed the line.” She meets Allison’s eyes furtively, worrying her lip. “But—”

“Oh no, do  _ not  _ say you think you’re still right,” Allison cuts in, raising an eyebrow. 

“Why not?” Lydia says, defensive. “If we want to get that gold we’re going to need to perfect the routine, and we can’t  _ do  _ that if he won’t start—”

“Lydia,” Allison says, and her voice is gentler this time, the accusation in her tone gone. “Let’s be real here. If you want to get that gold,  _ first  _ you need to learn how to skate together. And I know that is  _ so  _ not an easy thing to do, but learning the routine is useless if you can’t work together. You know that. And you know you’re never  _ really  _ going to be able to work together if you’re always snapping at each other.” 

Lydia sighs in defeat, because she knows that Allison is right. “Hey,” her friend says, grabbing her hand and squeezing it, smiling sympathetically at her best friend. “I know you’re scared. But I also know that no one at this rink or in this  _ sport  _ works as hard as you do, and that you’ll figure it out. Both of you.” 

“Thank you, Allison,” Lydia sighs, leaning into the other girl. Allison slings an arm around her, pulling her into a side hug, Lydia’s head resting against her shoulder. 

“Of course,” Allison says. “I know how hard this is. And I’m always here.” She pauses, turning to look at her friend. “Now go find Stiles, and _apologize.”_ Lydia groans, because she knows Allison’s right, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it. “Lydia,” Allison says, and Lydia turns her head, meeting the other girl’s eyes. “Like it or not, you two are a team, okay? And you’re never going to win if you don’t act like one.” 

Allison’s words play on loop in her head as she wanders the rink, looking for Stiles.  _ You two are a team,  _ her brain chants, over and over. She’s right, Lydia knows. She also knows that for the past month, she’s been acting like a pretty shitty teammate. And if they want to have  _ any  _ shot at getting that gold medal in February, she’s going to need to convince him to come back to the rink and give her another chance. 

She finally finds him on the top floor of the building, in one of the deserted boxes above the rink that are generally just used for meetings and such. He has his back towards her, sitting in one of the office chairs, eyes trained out the floor-to-ceiling glass windows and on the rink visible below. There are kids on the rink, it looks like— all the novice skaters, probably only around nine or ten years old. Lydia remembers when she was that young, just barely; learning how to skate with Derek as a coach and Jackson as a partner seems like it must have been from a different lifetime now. 

Hesitantly, she takes a step into the room, the sound of her skate guards muffled from the carpet. Stiles still turns around to face her, and his expression makes her heart twist, like he’s grabbed it in his bare hands and wrung it out. Some of that casual indifference from before lingers, but his eyes— his eyes are his downfall. She can see just from the pain behind those whiskey irises how much her words really wounded him. 

Yeah. These past weeks of practice have been hellish, but she might have  _ really  _ crossed a line here. 

“Hi,” she starts, voice quiet. “Uh,” she hesitates, feeling  _ so  _ out of her element. “Do you mind if I sit?” 

Stiles shakes his head wordlessly, turning back to the windows slightly, and Lydia takes that as her cue to drag a desk chair over next to his. She sits down too, biting her lip, unsure where to start as she watches the kids skate below. 

_ You need to fix this,  _ her mind shouts at her.  _ You need to apologize, or your gold medal dreams are as good as gone.  _

“I just— I’m sorry,” she finally blurts out, unable to stand the silence anymore. “I shouldn’t have said what I did on the rink. Today, and for the past few weeks. That was completely uncalled for.” 

Stiles doesn’t move to say anything, so she continues, still feeling jittery. “And I’m sorry I suggested you’re not working as hard as you could,” she adds, thinking back to what Allison had said. “I know this isn’t easy— for either of us. And it was unfair of me to pin all the blame on you.” She pauses, waiting for Stiles to say something,  _ anything,  _ but he doesn’t, his eyes still on the rink below. 

“It’s fine,” he finally says, and even with just those two words, Lydia can hear the sincerity in his voice. “I know how important this is for you. I know you didn’t really mean it.” 

Lydia blinks, a little taken aback at how quickly he forgave her. “Thanks,” she says, quietly, just because she doesn’t know what else to say. She was prepared to grovel for a  _ lot  _ longer to get Stiles to come back down to the ice. Because as aggravated as she is, Stiles is still her last hope for the Olympics this season. 

“I never really thought I’d ever have a chance at the Olympics,” Stiles says, snapping her attention back to him. Lydia’s breath catches at his sudden confession, and she turns her head to look at him. She’s a little taken aback at his spontaneous decision to open up— he clearly owes her nothing; they’ve barely spoken in the past month, and when they have, she’s been nothing but  _ horrible  _ to him. His eyes remain steadfastly trained out the window, but he doesn’t stop talking. “I mean, sure, I thought about it when I was little, but it was always more of a pipe dream. I started skating competitively too late, and I thought I’d never really make it to that level. Heather and I placed seventh at the last US Championship, and we were just thrilled to make it in the top ten.” He pauses, and  _ finally,  _ turns to meet her eyes. She realizes, at his words— they’ve been skating together almost a month and she still knows almost nothing about him. She’s watched his past programs and seen his past scores; she’s begrudgingly beginning to learn how he skates and how he moves, but that’s not the same as starting to learn  _ him.  _

“I’m sorry I’m holding you back from getting to PyeongChang,” he says, and now  _ Lydia  _ blinks in shock. How did this turn into  _ him  _ apologizing to  _ her?  _

“I’m not Jackson. I’ve never skated with this sort of end goal before.” He sighs, shaking his head slightly, before he continues. “And I honestly have no idea what the hell I’m doing.” 

Lydia almost laughs, meeting his eyes again, seeing the apprehension lingering behind those beautiful whiskey irises. “Stiles, I’ve been skating with the same partner for the past ten years,” she starts, shaking her head. “I have  _ no clue  _ how to skate with someone else— or even start  _ learning  _ to skate with someone else. I have no idea what I’m doing either.” 

Stiles almost grins at that, his lips tugging up into a lopsided smile, small, almost secretive. She smiles back, the words that she’s been searching for finally coming to her. Even if she hates this, she realizes, even if every day at practice is  _ awful  _ and exhausting and aggravating, she’s still on the ice. She’s still practicing. Her shot at the Olympics might be slim, but it’s not nonexistent, and that’s  _ all  _ because of the boy sitting next to her.

“You’re not holding me back,” she assures him, shifting so she’s leaning a little closer to him. He turns to look at her, expression a little taken aback, like he was expecting her to agree or start screaming again— not that she can really blame him for that assumption. She inhales, steeling herself to say the words that she knows need to be said. “I know right now this _sucks,_ and that it feels like we can’t find our rhythm, or get any of the routine right. But if you hadn’t stepped in, Stiles— if you hadn’t said you’d do this—” she pauses. “I would be sitting the season out, working on stuff for the next competition cycle, and hoping that my career would last long enough for me to get a shot in Beijing. You are _not_ holding me back.” 

“I do keep tripping you, though,” he says, and she catches the gleam in his eye, hears the joking tone in his voice, making her smile back at him. 

“Yeah,” she agrees, because the tension has dissolved a little, and she finds she wants to keep talking. “I feel like that’s pretty common when you learn to skate with someone new,” she says. “Not that I can really remember.” 

“Me neither,” Stiles agrees, eyes shifting back towards the novice skaters on the rink below. “I was skating with Heather for eight years before this.” 

“I was with Jackson for ten,” Lydia adds, following his line of sight. She watches the pairs of little kids moving across the ice awkwardly, watching for each others’ feet, trying to skate together fluidly, and she thinks that those kids probably feel  _ exactly  _ the same as she does in practices lately. “I’ve forgotten how to learn how other people move.” She takes a breath, willing herself to be vulnerable with Stiles, because he was vulnerable with her, and somehow— she can just tell he won’t judge her, in the way that Jackson would have. 

“It makes me really nervous,” she admits, and Stiles turns, meeting her gaze with wide eyes. “Suddenly half the things that were muscle memory to me are completely strange. I feel like I’m back at the beginning again. Like I don’t even know what I’m doing.” She exhales, closing her eyes briefly, suddenly unable to meet the intensity in Stiles’s gaze. “I think that’s why I keep lashing out at you. I just— I hate feeling so  _ stuck.”  _

His expression softens at those words, the hint of a smile creeping onto his face again. “Sorry, I know that’s not an excuse,” she adds, shaking her head. “I’ve been horrific to you in practice.” She finds she actually means it when she apologizes this time— not that she didn’t really mean it the first time, but she knew she _had_ to apologize when she walked in here, and this time she just… wants him to know she’s sorry because she really feels bad, no other ulterior motives. 

Stiles waves her off, almost rolling his eyes. “Seriously, Lydia, don’t worry about it,” he says, like everything she’s said and done to him for the past month is nothing. “It’s not like I’ve exactly been a saint to you either.” 

“No, Stiles,” she insists, eyes fixed on his. “I’m sorry. We’re a team,” she says, voice steady, confident. “And we can’t be one if I don’t start acting like we’re one.”

He freezes momentarily at her words, before smiling back at her, standing from the office chair. “Yeah,” he agrees, nodding slightly. “We are a team. And we can figure this out together. We’re gonna get you that gold medal, I promise,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice— somehow, deep in her soul, Lydia knows that he absolutely means it. 

“You know what?” Stiles says, a spark of determination in his eyes. “I think we need a fresh start, completely. Let’s just act like today is day one all over again.” Lydia laughs as he sticks his hand out, offering it to her. “Hi, I’m Stiles. Nice to meet you.” 

“Lydia,” she responds, unable to fight off the smile tugging at her lips, taking his hand and shaking it. They’ve been skating together a month, have had to hold hands almost that whole time, but Lydia still marvels a little bit at how much bigger his hands are than hers. He doesn’t let go of her hand as he stands, and she lets him tug her up from her chair. 

“Come on,” he says, a hint of accomplishment to his tone. “Let’s go try to run that short dance one more time.” 

She follows him out of the office in comfortable silence, the two of them waiting in the deserted hallway for the elevator to come. Lydia’s glad that she’s forgiven, that she told Stiles how nervous this whole thing has her, how on edge she’s been— and she’s glad that they’re going to act more like a team now. But there’s just one thing still nagging at the back of her mind, something she  _ knows  _ she shouldn’t ask, but that won’t leave her alone. 

“Were you really going to leave?” Lydia asks, trying to keep her demeanor casual, and not show how much that one simple question has been eating her up. Stiles turns towards her, expression a little bewildered.

“No,” he says automatically. “I, uh, was just aggravated, and I needed a minute. I was going to go back down to the rink before you found me.” 

“Oh,” she replies, and she’s pretty sure she flushes at how small her voice sounds. Stiles graciously ignores this, smiling at her softly. 

“I said I’d skate with you, Lydia,” he tells her. “Even though you’ve been  _ really  _ pissing me off for the past month, I wasn’t going to leave. I’m not going anywhere, no matter how hard this gets. I promise.” 

“Thanks,” she says, returning that smile, small and private, just for him. Now  _ he  _ looks flustered, his cheeks reddening. 

“Well, like you said,” he says, shrugging. “We’re a team, right?” 

“Right,” Lydia echoes, nodding, her eyes locked on his. She finds that she can’t look away, trapped up in his amber irises, but in all honesty— she’s not sure she really wants to.

***

Derek enters the rink about an hour later, an apprehensive look on his face as he skates towards them. “You two figure it out?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. The two of them nod in unison, and Derek still looks a little skeptical, but he accepts it. 

“Good. Let me see the rhumba.” 

“Try to hold me closer, okay?” Lydia asks as they get into their positions, Derek fiddling with the music. She’s determined to make this time different. Hearing Stiles raise his fears, sort of telling him her own— this feels almost like a reset. Like a second chance to make this better. 

“Okay, sorry,” Stiles responds, voice low. “I’m just always scared I’m going to trip you. You’re a lot shorter than Heather was.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Lydia insists. “If I fall, I fall. But we need to start working on getting the spacing between us right.” 

The music starts, and they begin to skate, Stiles pulling her body significantly closer to his than usual. Her eyes are trained on the ice, making sure their feet don’t go running into each other, but it’s already sort of an improvement, without the hostile energy that’s been building for the past few weeks between them. 

It’s not long before she trips over him, but Stiles reacts immediately, catching her before she can wipe out. “Sorry!” he calls over to Derek, who nods, watching them resituate themselves as he restarts the music. “Sorry,” he says in more hushed tones to Lydia. “How can I fix that?”

“It’s okay,” she says, forcing down the urge to snap, because he’s trying, clearly. And that look in his eyes right now, so soft and full of concern— it’s a little hard to say no to that. 

“Your strokes are just longer than I’m used to,” she says, meeting his eyes, trying to meet him halfway. After earlier— she knows he’s not going to judge her, think she’s less of a skater for admitting something’s hard for her. With Jackson, their whole relationship was a constant power struggle. But with Stiles— after what he said earlier, she feels like she doesn’t have to constantly be stronger. 

“My legs aren’t as long as yours,” she continues. “I think that’s why we keep running into each other.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says, nodding, like that makes sense. “I’ll watch my strokes this time, make sure I’m not cutting you off.” He pauses, and the music reaches the step they had missed. “You ready?” 

She nods, and they’re skating again. 

Stiles is true to his words— he doesn’t trip her anymore; his strokes are more in sync with hers, and for the first time in  _ months,  _ Lydia feels like their choreography actually looks  _ decent.  _ Derek seems to agree, because he nods in approval as they finish the step sequence, setting up for the element that caused them so much trouble earlier. 

Lydia shifts her weight onto one foot, moving to raise her leg. “Look,” she says to Stiles, lips barely moving in a way she’s perfected through years of talking through routines on the ice. “I know this is awkward. Just grab me, okay? I promise I’m not going to bite.” 

Stiles laughs, but his hands move to wrap around her as she raises her leg. “I don’t know if I believe that,” he mutters, but when she wraps her leg around his waist, he grabs her thigh immediately, holding her tight. There’s still too much space between them, and Stiles’s cheeks are tinged a little pink, his eyes a little apprehensive, but they make it through the entire element without  _ any  _ major mishaps. 

_ “There _ we go,” Derek says, and there’s a grin on his face now as he skates towards them, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat. _ “That’s _ what I was looking for.” 

Derek has them come join Scott and Allison and the others on the main rink after that, and the rest of rehearsal goes optimistically well. Lydia makes a point of thinking through her words, trying to communicate to Stiles what’s going wrong instead of just snapping at him. She can tell Allison can sense the shift in energy between them, because every time she catches Lydia’s eye, she’s grinning encouragingly at her best friend. 

Derek appears behind her at the boards as she takes a break, wiping sweat from her brow and sipping on her water. Stiles is still out on the rink, watching Scott and Allison run one of their new free dance lifts under Braeden’s watchful eye. She can sense that her coach is behind her, so she doesn’t even turn to face him, instead focusing on capping her water bottle.

“Go ahead, say it,” Lydia says, her tone jokingly defeated. While it sometimes drives her  _ insane  _ that Derek is  _ always  _ right, this is the best practice they’ve had in weeks, so it’s hard not to be in a good mood.

“I told you so,” Derek says, leaning next to her, against the boards. It looks like he’s watching Scott and Allison as Scott lowers her from their new curve lift, but his eyes linger, and Lydia realizes he’s watching Stiles. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Lydia responds, still refusing to meet his eyes, but there’s a little grin tugging at her lips.

“You’re probably gonna get that from Allison later too,” Derek tells her, raising an eyebrow. “She won’t tell me what she said to you, but whatever it is, I’m grateful.” 

“She told me to stop being so stubborn and pull my head out of my ass,” Lydia summarizes, making a face. Derek laughs, eyes still fixed on his other skaters, waltzing around the rink, oblivious to Derek and Lydia on the sidelines. 

“You know, you pay me to be your coach,” Derek tells her, turning to face her, and she finally concedes, meeting his eyes. “It wouldn’t kill you to listen to me once in a while.” 

Lydia smirks at him prettily, because he may be right, but she’s still stubborn. “What would be the fun in that?” He just laughs, patting her shoulder comfortingly, his eyes drifting out to the ice again, landing on her partner. 

“You know,” Derek says, and his voice grows quieter, demeanor more serious. “I’ve been coaching you and Stiles both since you were kids. You’ve always been one of my best skaters. But Stiles—” he breaks off, and Lydia remains silent, unsure where he’s going with this. 

“Stiles and Heather were always fine. They worked well together, they had an easy partnership between them. They grew up together, and they got each other. But I always thought…” he inhales, eyes still trained on Lydia’s partner, laughing with Scott over something Allison said, Braeden shaking her head at the two boys. “I always thought that Stiles had so much more potential. That if he had a partner that really pushed him, really challenged him to work even harder— he could be so much better than he thought he had the ability to be.” Derek pauses again, turning to face Lydia, and there’s a feeling in her chest, almost like her heart is squeezing, as she understands what Derek is saying. “I think you’re that partner, Lydia,” he tells her. “If you two can make this work, I really, honestly believe you have the capability to be incredible. Something like this sport has never seen before.” 

Lydia remains silent for a second, not sure how to respond. It still amazes her sometimes how much faith Derek has in her, after all the shit she pulls, all the stubbornness and resistance she makes him deal with. She really does have the best coach in the world— and not just for his training methods, but for his support as well.

“Thank you,” she says, voice quiet, and she can tell from the way he squeezes her shoulder reassuringly— he understands all the words she’s not able to say. 

***

Derek’s words prove to be true when she sits down next to Allison in the locker room to unlace her skates after practice. “I told you so,” her best friend whispers, devilish grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

“Yeah, go ahead and gloat,” Lydia says, pulling a face, though it doesn’t do anything to damper that spark of hope that’s suddenly taken hold in her. Like this season might actually be salvageable again. 

“C’mon, you know it’s because I love you,” Allison says with a perfect eye roll, squeezing Lydia’s shoulder as she finishes packing up her bag. “I’ve gotta go, Scott’s waiting. I’ll see you at pilates, okay?” 

“Okay,” Lydia agrees, smiling at her friend before she turns back to her skates. 

“Hey, Lydia!” Stiles calls as she starts to head for the locker room exit afterwards. For the first time in a literal month, she’s leaving the rink feeling like they actually made  _ progress,  _ that they might still have a shot at an Olympic medal. She turns to face Stiles as he skids to a halt behind her, skate bag slung over his shoulder. 

“So, I was thinking,” he says, and the hand not clutching at the strap of his skate bag hangs by his side, fingers drumming against his leg. “Today was… really good. I think we actually made progress. But I was thinking about what we were saying, earlier, up in the offices, and…” he pauses, whisky eyes a little nervous, but never wavering from hers. “It’s been a month, and we barely know anything about each other. So, since we’re starting over… do you maybe want to grab coffee or something?”

Lydia finds herself nodding slowly, which is really hilarious, she thinks, because if he’d asked her this even  _ yesterday,  _ she probably would have laughed in his face. “I’m supposed to go to pilates today with Allison,” she says, because it’s their one day off from personal training. “But I’ll tell her I can’t; she won’t mind.” 

“Are you sure?” Stiles says, eyebrows raising in concern. But Lydia’s certain— between their discussion earlier and Derek’s words at the end of practice, she is going to take this olive branch Stiles is extending. Knowing Derek believes in them— it’s starting to make  _ her  _ believe in them too. 

“Definitely,” Lydia says. “Allison won’t mind at all. Do you want to meet at that café down the road in an hour or so?” 

“That sounds great,” Stiles says, and he grins, big and genuine. It’s the first time Lydia’s really seen him  _ smile,  _ she thinks— definitely the first time she’s seen a smile on him that wide, one that reaches those amber eyes. It’s a good look on him. “I’ll see you then?”

“See you then,” she echoes, and he nods a little, before turning, heading out of the locker rooms in a blur of flailing limbs, leaving her standing still, watching his retreating back. 

She goes home and showers, changes into  _ not  _ athletic clothes, and then drives to the café, nerves starting to build in her stomach again. God, what if this is awful? Practice went sort of well today, but what if that was a one-off? What if they try to be civil and friendly with each other and it just ends up being another screaming match? What if this is the final nail in the coffin, the deciding factor in whether or not they can turn this around and make sure this partnership works well enough to earn a spot at the Olympics? 

_ Calm down,  _ she has to snap at herself.  _ You’re getting coffee, for god’s sake. This is ridiculously low stakes.  _

Still, as she walks into the cafe, she feels like the stakes are higher than ever. 

Stiles is already sitting at a table when she gets there, in dark pants and sneakers, a flannel unbuttoned over a t shirt. It’s sort of weird to see him not in athletic clothes— it’s like before this very moment, he only existed as an entity inside the rink. She can tell he’s having a similar thought process as he looks her up and down, takes in her long sleeved dress, her heeled booties, her loose hair. 

“Hey,” he says anyways, smiling at her. “Uh, I’ll get coffee. What would you like?” 

She rattles off her usual order to him, and he nods, leaving her at the table alone as he joins the line. She checks her phone while she waits, seeing she already has a snapchat from Allison. She laughs when she opens it, seeing her best friend had dragged Scott to pilates in her place, but the question “how is it going?!” is typed over her boyfriend’s overwhelmed face. 

_ We just got here,  _ Lydia types back over a quick selfie.  _ We haven’t even talked yet.  _ Allison’s probably in class, so she doesn’t expect an immediate response, but then Stiles sets their coffees down on the table, and she looks up from her phone, meeting his eyes again. 

“Here is your latte,” Stiles says, pushing it across the tiny table to her. She takes it gratefully, sipping it slowly, unsure what to do next. 

“So,” he says, fingers drumming against the tabletop. Lydia has a feeling that he just becomes even  _ more  _ spastic when he’s had caffeine. 

“So,” she responds, meeting his gaze. He laughs a little, smiling brightly at her, and the shine in his eyes makes it feel like the past month never happened at all. 

“This is so weird,” Stiles says. “Right?” 

“Yeah,” she agrees, biting back a smile as well. 

“We’ve been skating together for a month now. I feel like I  _ should  _ know you by now,” he says, and she nods, because she feels the same way. It’s such a strange situation— she’s had her body pressed up against his for hours on end, has had his hand on the inside of her thigh, has lived and breathed in his personal space for weeks now. But she doesn’t know anything about him other than the feel of his hands— she couldn’t tell you his birthday, his favorite food, the name of his hometown. 

“I mean, I don’t know anything important about you,” Stiles says, taking a sip of his coffee. Lydia raises an eyebrow at him in amusement. 

“Such as?” she prompts, waiting for him to continue.

His eyebrows scrunch together, like he’s seriously deep in thought. “Like— what’s your favorite color?” he asks, and she can’t help but laugh. Clearly he’s thinking along the same lines as her. 

“Mm. Very important.” Stiles pulls a face at her, so she does answer the question. “Blue,” she says, thinking of her free dance dress last year, a soft, beautiful baby blue. “What about you?” 

“Also blue,” Stiles says, grin wide. He pauses, like he’s considering something. “And orange.” She raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Really? Orange  _ and  _ blue?” She shakes her head, smirking. “Not a good combination.” 

Stiles looks _outraged_ at her words, like he can’t believe she would suggest something as controversial as simple color theory. “Orange and blue are a _perfect_ combination,” he insists, but he can’t keep the hint of a smile from tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“In what world?” Lydia asks, unable to keep herself from laughing. 

“In  _ this  _ world,” he says. “Orange and blue are the colors of the Mets.” 

“Ah,” Lydia says, nodding her head in amusement, because  _ now  _ it makes sense. “So your favorite colors are orange and blue because of a shitty baseball team.” 

“Lydia Martin, you take that back,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at her. She just grins, taking a sip of her latte. “Only Mets fans are allowed to complain about how bad our team is.” 

“So you’re a Mets fan,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “Are you from New York?” 

He shakes his head, making a face. “Nah, I’m from California. Same town as Scott, actually. Beacon Hills. It’s a little north of here.” She nods slowly, contemplatively, and his expression grows inquisitive. “What about you?” 

“I’m from California too,” she tells him. “I moved to LA when I was twelve, though, to train. That’s when I met Allison.” 

“So that’s how you guys met,” Stiles says, taking another sip of coffee. “I always wondered. It’s kind of unusual, to have two people so directly in competition with each other be such good friends.” He pauses, like he’s realizing what he just said. “Sorry, I don’t mean that in a bad way.” 

“No, I get it,” Lydia says, because it  _ is  _ strange, and it probably shouldn’t work, but Allison’s friendships is also one of the best things in her life. “But yeah, that’s how we met. And then a few years later when my parents got divorced and her family tried to move her back to San Francisco, we stayed in LA to train and lived together.”

“Oh my god, you were  _ roommates,”  _ Stiles says, eyes wide, grin tugging at his lips. Lydia can’t help it— she full-on rolls her eyes at that. 

“Did you just quote a  _ vine  _ at me?” she demands, although she already knows the answer.

“Why are you acting like that’s a bad thing?” he responds, that little smirk still playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“I don’t understand the comedic appeal of vines,” Lydia says truthfully. Sure, they’re sometimes funny, but she just does not understand the principle. It’s random six-second long videos that most of the time make literally no sense. 

“There’s nothing to understand,” Stiles says, as if this should be simple. “They don’t make any sense. They’re hilarious.” 

“Vines are basically dadaism in six second video format,” Lydia says succinctly, taking another sip of her latte.

“Exactly,” Stiles agrees. “And they’re spectacular.” 

She laughs again, unable to contain the sound from tumbling out of her mouth. It sort of amazes her, how easy it is talking to Stiles like this, when they’re not on the rink. “So is that what you do with your free time?” she asks him. “Watch vine compilations?” 

“That’s  _ not  _ what you do with your free time?” he asks. But he shakes his head, continuing. “No, although I do love a good vine compilation. Uh, free time… watch Star Wars? Play video games with Scott? Cry about the latest Mets loss?” He shrugs. “Take your pick.” He takes another sip of his drink, nodding his head towards Lydia. “What about you? What do you do in your free time?” 

“I take classes,” Lydia says. “I’m working on a degree at UCLA.” 

“Oh, that’s awesome,” Stiles says, and he looks genuinely happy for her. “In what?” 

“Advanced mathematics and theoretical physics,” she answers, trying not to smile at the way Stiles’s jaw drops. 

“Holy shit,” he says, eyes wide. “So not only are you an  _ insanely  _ talented ice dancer, you’re also a frickin’ genius.” She grins at that, because she  _ is  _ a genius, literally. She has an IQ of 170. Stiles shakes his head, like he’s still sort of taking that in, before he grins at her, eyes shining. 

“I like math,” she says in explanation, which is a tad of an understatement. She _loves_ math. Always the same, always steady. Always with a definitive answer. When her whole world feels like it’s falling apart, math can help keep her centered. She shrugs, continuing. Stiles’s eyes are still trained only on her, like she’s captivated him. 

“When I retire from skating, I’ll go back and get my PhD, and then I’ll solve the Riemann hypothesis,” she tells Stiles. His eyebrows raise again in disbelief, but— she doesn’t know how to describe it. It’s not disbelief in  _ her,  _ it’s like he’s in disbelief that she’s real, sitting here in front of her. 

“Olympic gold’s not enough?” he asks, a little teasing. “You need a Nobel Prize too?” 

“Nobel doesn’t have a prize for mathematics,” she says matter-of-factly, finishing off her latte. “Once I get that Olympic gold, I’m getting a Field’s medal to hang right next to it.”

“You know, I actually, truly believe that,” he says, and his eyes are so sincere, expression so genuine, that she can’t help the way her heart clenches. He pauses, finishing his coffee too, putting the empty cup down on the table. “Well, I’m  _ terrible  _ at math, so I can’t do anything for you there, but I’ll help get you that gold medal. I promise.” 

She smiles back, unable to resist the addictive nature of Stiles’s wide grin. 

They stay at the little table for probably another hour, drinks long finished, but the time passes as if it’s nothing. They walk out to the parking lot together afterwards, Stiles shooting her a soft grin as they reach her car. 

“This was nice,” he says, and she smiles back at him. 

“Yeah,” she agrees, nodding, and his eyes are shining in that way they do again, the amber color almost golden in the dying sunlight. “Really nice.” 

They both hesitate, not sure what to say next, but Stiles grins at her easily, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow?” 

“Yes,” she says, nodding succinctly. “See you tomorrow.” Stiles gives her a little wave as she opens her car door, turning and walking towards his own dilapidated Jeep on the other side of the lot. 

She drives home in almost silence, the song on the radio barely registering. Regardless, there’s a little grin tugging at Lydia’s lips, one that she can’t suppress— it’s fueled by the hope that they can maybe turn things around now, that maybe this season won’t be a complete disaster. Sure, Stiles sort of talks too much, and seems incapable of controlling his limbs off ice, and loves a really shitty baseball team, but he’s also witty and kind and listens when she talks, even though she’s been despicable to him almost the entire time they’ve been together. That long-lost feeling of hope makes it hard for Lydia to stop smiling. 

She calls Allison the moment she gets back to her apartment, toeing off her shoes and changing back into leggings with her phone pressed to her ear. It was worth it to miss pilates, she knows, but that doesn’t mean she’s off the hook when it comes to conditioning— she’ll do a quick pilates session in her living room tonight to make up for it. 

“How did it go?” Allison immediately answers, in lieu of greeting. Lydia almost laughs, because she can just  _ picture  _ the look on her best friend’s face. 

“It went well,” she says truthfully, sitting cross-legged on her bed. “Like,  _ really  _ well. We just talked, and there was no yelling, and he’s actually pretty enjoyable to talk with?” she says, her voice lilting up at the end like she’s asking a question. “I don’t know, Allison,” she says, biting her lip. “I think we might be able to turn this around.” 

“Wow, it’s amazing what can happen when you listen to your best friend,” Allison says, and Lydia can’t see her face, but she can picture the smirk gracing the other girl’s lips. 

“Okay, I get it, I’m stubborn and you told me so,” Lydia says, because there is approximately  _ one  _ person in this universe Lydia will admit that to, and it’s the person she’s currently on the phone with. “Are you done?” she asks over Allison’s laughter. “Because I have a serious question.” 

“Yes, yes, I’m done,” Allison says, her laughter trickling off. “What’s your question?” 

“Today in practice— after you yelled at me, obviously— things were good. And then when we were together afterwards, everything seemed  _ normal.”  _ She pauses, worrying her lip. “How do we  _ stay  _ like that?” 

“Well, first off, no more yelling,” Allison says, and Lydia groans. 

_ “Thank  _ you for that, Allison,” she says, pulling a face, even if her friend can’t see her. “I never could have figured  _ that  _ out on my own.” 

“Okay, I know, but I’m serious,” Allison laughs. “Communication is  _ key.  _ No more misunderstandings, or pent up frustration, or getting angry over things you won’t tell each other are wrong. If you don’t  _ talk  _ to each other, you’re not going to make any progress.” 

“Alright,” Lydia says, nodding her head. “Is that it?” 

Allison hesitates, and Lydia catches the barest hints of something Scott’s saying in the background before her friend’s laugh drowns out the faint sound of Scott’s voice. “Scott says we should throw the two of you in with the novice skaters,” Allison reports, still laughing a little. “Which, actually, is not that bad of an idea.” 

“You are _not_ serious,” Lydia demands. “I am not skating with a bunch of ten year olds.” 

“I don’t mean  _ literally  _ put you in with the novices; you would terrify them,” Allison says. “But what if we got private ice one night, and you two just went through all that dumb, basic stuff you learn as a novice? Scott and I can come help.” She pauses, letting Lydia consider. “You said you felt like you were starting over completely, relearning everything. You might as well take advantage of that. Figure out how each other really move together without all the other teams watching you.” 

“That is… not a  _ terrible  _ idea,” Lydia says, because it probably would be beneficial. And having the ice just to themselves— even though she’s started to let her guard down around Stiles, she still hates not being at the top of her game when they’re on the ice with the other teams. She doesn’t exactly want her direct competition seeing her relearning all the basics of ice dance. 

“I’ll see if we can snag an hour or two of private ice tomorrow night after we’re done with Parrish,” Allison says, voice definitive, and Lydia can tell she’s going to make them do this. Lydia’s usually stubborn, but with this she doesn’t mind— because it’s  _ Allison,  _ and she knows her best friend has her best interests at heart. 

“I’ll text Stiles and see what he says,” Lydia agrees. She catches the faint sound of Scott’s voice on the other line, quickly hidden by Allison’s laughter. 

“Scott says don’t worry, Stiles will do literally anything you say,” Allison reports, a hint of amusement still in her voice. 

“Do you have me on speaker phone?” Lydia demands, laughing. 

Allison’s tone grows gravely serious, her voice lowering to a whisper. “No, he just has  _ scary  _ good hearing. Like, seriously, there are times I wonder if he has supernatural abilities or something.” Lydia laughs at that, shaking her head. 

“Okay, I have to go,” Lydia says. “I’ve got to do pilates in my living room before I go to bed.” 

“You go stretch,” Allison agrees. “I’ll see you tomorrow. And text Stiles!” she adds, to which Lydia laughs. 

“Okay, okay. Bye, Allison.” 

“Bye!” her best friend says, the line going silent as Allison hangs up. 

Sitting on her bed still, Lydia opens up the messages app, starting a new text and staring warily at Stiles’s name there at the top of the screen. She takes a deep breath, finally typing out a message detailing Allison’s suggestion and asking for his opinion on it, steeling herself as she presses send. 

She can do this. She can open herself up to new people, can learn to skate with someone new. She can still make this season as good as it was supposed to be for her— maybe even  _ better.  _

She leaves her phone on her bed when she does pilates, rolling her mat out in the living room and focusing on reconnecting to her body; she forgets about Stiles, Allison, Jackson, the gold medal,  _ everything—  _ she just focuses on the slow, rhythmic pattern of her breathing: in and out, in and out. She feels satisfyingly stretched out, her mind much more at peace, and almost forgets she had texted Stiles when she picks up her phone again. 

There are no less that six text messages from him, although only one has to do with her question. He also thinks it’s a good idea, saying that if they can get ice time after training tomorrow, he’s game. Below that is another message, and then four more with different links to… youtube videos? She reads his text message above, and can’t help but laugh when she realizes what he sent her. 

_ Seeing as you seemed oblivious to the wonders of vine compilations, I feel like it’s my duty to educate you. I can’t go around skating with someone who doesn’t understand the glory of VINES.  _

He’s included links to four different videos, each of which seem to be about fifteen minutes long. She can’t help laughing to herself, opening up youtube to find a video to send him back in response. 

_ If that’s how it’s going to be, then I have some viewing material for you as well,  _ she types, before pasting in the link to one of her favorite TED talks on the Riemann hypothesis.  _ Don’t show up to practice tomorrow without having seen it.  _

_ Wouldn’t dream of it,  _ his response reads a second later, with a winky face emoji.  _ I’ll see you then.  _

She wishes him a good night, plugging in her phone to charge before she gets in the shower, changing into pajamas and turning out the lights soon after, a little grin still playing at the corners of her mouth. 

She goes to bed that night feeling lighter than she has since Jackson left her behind. 

***

In a strange turn of events, Derek sort of leaves them be during practice the next day, focusing more on the other teams on the ice. While Lydia would generally be annoyed at her coach’s inattentiveness, she can tell what he’s doing today— he’s giving them the space to talk through their routine without interference. 

And talk they do. Stiles gives her a warm smile as he skates up next to her after they’ve all warmed up, and she notices almost all the apprehension is gone from his eyes. “Let’s break everything down,” she suggests, and he nods immediately, offering her his hand so they can skate. 

She takes it without hesitation. 

They move through their routine at half speed, analyzing every step, every stroke, every edge. They make a conscious effort to communicate with each other: Lydia finds herself counting to three in her head when things go wrong, trying to get her anger and frustration in check before telling Stiles why they’re messing up. He just nods along to everything she says, throwing out his own suggestions, offering his own insights, that attentive look in his eyes letting her know he’s really listening to her concerns. Before long they’ve broken down half their dance, and Lydia doesn’t even have to take a second to mentally calm down after they botch their choreography. 

“You’ve got to gab me with more force,” she tells Stiles as they practice one of the transitions out of their step sequences. She’s pretty impressed by the shift in her tone— she knows a few days ago, she would have sounded  _ infinitely  _ more hostile saying that same sentence. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Stiles says, his expression apologetic. 

“I’m not made out of glass,” Lydia tells him, shaking her head. “I know I’m smaller than you, but I’m still strong.” And she is— she might have a tiny frame, might stand a good six or seven inches shorter than Stiles, but she’s been training all her life, her body all muscle. There are ice dancers that look like porcelain dolls, like something that would break if you ever attempted a complex lift, but Lydia has always prided herself on the fact that while she’s tiny, she looks like an  _ athlete.  _

“You’re not going to hurt me,” she promises, looking Stiles in the eye. “Okay? I promise if you do, I’ll tell you.” He nods, and she notices the next time they practice this hold, his arms are tighter around her. 

Derek  _ is  _ paying attention to them, she realizes about an hour in. She looks over to watch Allison and Scott practice their new lift and catches her coach staring at her, his expression focused and intense. His eyes widen marginally as he realizes he’s been caught, and he glances away casually, pretending he wasn’t watching her and Stiles. 

The fourth time she catches him, he doesn’t even bother looking away, just watches as Stiles tries to demonstrate his strokes on the second part of the rhumba. 

_Thank you,_ she mouths to their coach, and after he nods slightly— then he looks away. 

They take a fifteen minute break around ten, and when they step back on the ice,  _ then  _ Derek wants to see their dance. “C’mon,” Stiles says, palm outstretched, tugging her to center ice when she slips her hand into his. “We’ve got this.” 

As she assumes her beginning pose, Lydia can’t help but agree. 

They, miraculously, make it through the dance without a  _ single  _ mishap. They don’t trip over each other, their footwork is miraculously in sync, and Lydia starts to feel that old sensation of skating with someone seep back in— like you’re not two separate bodies, you’re part of a whole, moving and breathing together. She can’t help but match Stiles’s goofy grin when they finish the samba and rhumba, high fiving him back as  _ Oye Como Va  _ plays over the rink speakers. 

“That looked really good, guys,” Derek says, and Lydia thinks both she and Stiles can hear the hint of pride in their coach’s voice. “Let’s keep it like that from now on.” He gives Lydia a pointed look, and she rolls her eyes goodnaturedly. Yes, she gets it. No more yelling. No more backslides. 

“That felt  _ awesome,”  _ Stiles says to her in hushed tones once Derek has turned his attention to others again, the two of them gulping down water at the boards. “Right? That wasn’t just me?” 

“Wasn’t just you,” she agrees, putting her water back down. “We felt so in sync.” She looks up at him, meeting his eyes, and she can’t help but laugh a little bit. “Why didn’t you walk out on me  _ weeks  _ ago? We’d have so much more of our programs done.” 

She’s kidding, and doesn’t expect an answer, but Stiles’s expression still grows meek. “I felt bad,” he says, glancing down, before meeting her eyes through his unfairly long lashes. “Your whole world had just been derailed. I know what that feels like.” He shrugs, his expression still apologetic, though he really has nothing to apologize for. “I didn’t want to make it any worse for you.” 

She sort of freezes at that, unsure how to respond, because the amount of emotion in his whiskey eyes right now is  _ astounding.  _ She realizes that while he seems like a sarcastic, snarky goofball most of the time, the amount of care and compassion he has, even for people who probably don’t deserve it (read:  _ her)  _ is sort of amazing. 

“Plus,” he adds, and that teasing glint is back in his eye. “I was sorta scared if I fought back at  _ all  _ those very first weeks you would have literally murdered me.” 

Lydia can’t help but laugh at that, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t have,” she assures him, her eyes shining. “Allison would never have let me.” 

Stiles bursts out in laughter at that, his hand coming up to rest on top of the boards for support. Lydia drinks in the way he looks, hunched over with joy— his smile wide, eyebrows raised, eyes sparkling. It’s enough to sort of make her wish she’d been nicer to him early on. 

“Hey,” Braeden says, stopping short in front of the two of them, grabbing her coffee off the boards. “This is an ice rink, not a comedy club. Can we get back to work?” They both nod at their coach, who is standing there with an eyebrow raised and a hand on her hip, but Lydia doesn’t miss the teasing glint of the other woman’s eyes. Braeden’s just as happy they’re getting along as they are. 

“Good,” Braeden says, nodding back. “I want to see your footwork.” 

They spend the next couple hours breaking everything down even further with Braeden, taking the dance apart and reconstructing it, talking through issues, making sure every movement works well for them and compliments the piece. By the time practice is over, Lydia finally feels like they have a solid base of a program to work off of. 

“It’s looking good,” Braeden says, nodding her head. “Footwork is way better. Technically, it’s so much stronger.” She meets both their eyes as Derek skates up behind her, hands still shoved in the pockets of his jacket. “It’s honestly just performance we have to  _ really  _ focus on now. Getting that rhythm of the dance, racking up artistic points in your score.” 

They both nod along, because Lydia knows it’s true. While they’ve made _miles_ of progress just today, their performance is still seriously lacking. She still feels like a ten year old skating through this program— a little awkward, a little unfamiliar, nothing like the heated and flirtatious edge they need to bring to the samba and rhumba. 

She’s hoping tonight will help with that. 

It’s almost seven by the time they’re done with Parrish, and while the other teams that are still at the rink pack up their stuff, throw skates in bags and jackets over shoulders before heading out of the locker room doors for the day, Stiles, Lydia, Allison, and Scott all tug their skates back on, the four of them walking over to the empty second rink for their private ice time. 

“This is so  _ nice,”  _ Allison laughs, zooming around the rink like she’s a speed skater, not an ice dancer, Scott chasing after her. “I can’t ever remember the last time we had private ice,” she says, stopping short right in front of Stiles and Lydia, the two of them still hovering at the boards. 

“Remember, we’re here for a reason,” Lydia reminds her best friend, raising an eyebrow at her in amusement. “Are you and Scott ready to reteach us the basics?” 

“Born ready,” Scott says, coming to a stop behind his girlfriend, his hands automatically finding her waist. “Allison, put on some music?” She nods, patting her phone in the pocket of her  _ Stars on Ice  _ jacket, before skating towards the sound booth on the opposite side of the rink, Scott trailing behind her. 

“I’m starting to wonder if letting them boss us around for two hours was a good idea,” Stiles mutters to Lydia, his mouth inches away from her ear, his voice low and husky from the cold. Lydia shrugs, an amused grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

“They know what they’re doing,” Lydia says, watching her best friends squabble over the song selection on Allison’s phone. “And this will be good. Help us rebuild the basics without any judging onlookers.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, sights still fixed on Scott and Allison. “But Derek and Braeden aren’t here,” he continues, and Lydia turns her head to meet his eye, because she doesn’t know where he’s going with this. His expression is grim, like he’s already accepted his fate. “That means we have to deal with those two—” his head jerks towards Scott and Allison— “making heart eyes at each other all night.” 

At that, Lydia can’t help but laugh. 

She doesn't have time to say anything in return, because apparently their friends have decided on a music choice—David Bowie’s  _ Let’s Dance  _ is suddenly blasting through the rink, Allison bopping along to the music as she skates back over to the other pair. “Apropos, right?” Scott asks as he comes to a quick stop behind Allison, his hand immediately finding hers. “C’mon,” he says, tugging Allison away from the boards, gesturing for Stiles and Lydia to follow. “Let’s dance.” 

Stiles turns to look at her, his brows raised and his eyes bright in a way that makes his expression look open and boyish and hopeful. He offers her a hand, tilting his head to the side a little, almost to say,  _ shall we?  _

She takes his hand without hesitation, their fingers wrapping around each others’ as Lydia pulls him after their best friends. 

“Okay,” Allison says, turning around so she’s facing them, skating backwards. “Let’s just take a couple laps first. You guys have hardly skated together when you’re  _ not  _ doing your short dance. So just skate, and pay attention to each others’ strokes and edges, okay?” Stiles and Lydia both nod, because they can that Allison’s not really asking, she’s telling. 

While Lydia will admit that Allison’s idea to put her and Stiles through what’s basically a glorified novice class is probably truly beneficial, she expected it to be so much more  _ awkward  _ that this. Not just in a skating sense, where she and Stiles can’t stop tripping over each other— she fully expected to feel like a nine year old, hand grasped in Stiles’s as they just move through lazy laps around the rink and practice things they’ve known how to do their whole lives, but instead it’s just starting to feel  _ natural.  _ Scott and Allison are a little ahead of them, hands also intertwined, and Allison keeps turning around to give them more instruction. They go through all the basic movements you learn when you’re ten, matching each other’s edges and strokes, trying to find a balance between their two sets of skills. Stiles shortens his strokes, she notices, but she also can see her own edges getting deeper, trying to mirror her partner’s. It’s only been an hour or so, but going through these mundane movements has Lydia starting to feel like she really  _ gets  _ his skating now, understands how he moves and can begin to anticipate his next steps. 

“See?” Allison asks when they all take a water break a little later, gloved hands on her hips. “You guys look  _ way  _ better.” 

“Do you want to run through your short dance?” Scott asks. “Might be good to work through it quickly, since you’re pretty in tune now.” 

“Okay,” Lydia says, nodding at Stiles, who’s giving her an inquisitive look. “Let’s try it.” Lydia hands her phone over to Allison, pulling up the music mix Derek had given them both a few weeks back. 

It feels  _ amazing  _ to go through the dance with all their basics-rebuilding still fresh in mind. All their holds are closer, the way they’re  _ supposed  _ to be, and they still don’t trip over each other  _ once.  _ Their strokes are the same, their edges are closer to matching— they even get through the  _ twizzles  _ in relative synchronicity. 

“That looked good!” Scott tells them encouragingly when they finish the program, handing them water bottles at the boards. “Seriously, guys. Such an improvement.” 

“Thanks, Scott,” Stiles says, still panting, but flashing his best friend a lopsided grin anyways. “Your cheerleading abilities are truly unmatched.” Scott narrows his eyes at Stiles, but he can’t fight off the returning grin tugging at his lips. 

“It does look way better,” Allison agrees. “But…” she hesitates, like there’s something on the tip of her tongue that she isn’t sure will help or hurt them. 

“What, Allison?” Lydia asks, because she trusts her best friend unconditionally, and she’d rather hear negative feedback from her than from the international judges at Champs Camp. 

“It’s just…” she pauses again, considering her words. “I know you guys just learned this, and you’re still working on the performance. But right now, it looks really… I don’t know.  _ Clinical,  _ almost.” 

“What do you mean?” Stiles says, but there’s no hint of accusation in his tone. As weirdly rare as it is to be such good friends with a team that is _so_ close in skill set to your own, Lydia is beyond grateful for how her and Allison’s, and Scott and Stiles’s friendships transcend competition and rivalry. It’s moments like this, where they can just help each other, offer each other guidance with no second thoughts of who will come out with the gold in the end, that remind Lydia of what the most important thing she’s gained through this sport _really_ is— and that’s her best friend. 

“Again, I know it’s a work in progress,” Allison says, chewing at her lip like she’s deep in thought. “But in your holds, and your lifts— it’s like there’s nothing behind those touches. Like you’re both trying to ignore holding each other, instead of filling those moments with feeling.” She makes a face. “Does that make sense?” 

Lydia nods, because she does get what Allison is saying. “We focused on that a lot with our free dance,” Allison adds, reaching for Scott’s hand; he nods, agreeing with what his girlfriend is saying. Their free dance this year is beautiful and ethereal, set to the soundtrack from the 1960s movie  _ The Umbrellas of Cherbourg.  _ “Derek said when we first learned it that the reason it was lacking emotion was because our touches had lost feeling,” she says. “We needed to relearn how to pass that energy between us. How to connect with just simple touches.”

“Okay,” Lydia says, eyes trained on her best friend. “So how do we do that?” 

“Braeden made us do that refresher course,” Allison says, and there’s a glint in her eye as she finishes her sentence. “On how to touch each other sensually.” 

Lydia’s eyebrows quirk up in amusement; next to her, Stiles sounds like he’s begun coughing on his own spit. “I’m sorry,  _ what?”  _ he says, eyebrows practically at his hairline, arms crossing defensively. 

“It sounds worse than it is,” Scott assures his best friend, but Stiles still looks skeptical. Her eyes skim up and down him quickly— his cheeks are tinged red, his fingers fidgeting nervously in a way that would be almost endearing if the thing making him so flustered wasn’t the idea of touching her, which is pretty much half of his job description. 

“Come on, we can do it,” Lydia says, determined to take Allison’s advice and help support him instead of criticizing and snapping. “Better here with no one watching than on the ice tomorrow morning, right?” 

He shrugs at that, still looking adorably flustered, one hand going to rub at the back of his neck. “Yeah, fair.” He takes a breath like he’s preparing for  _ battle  _ or something, looking back to Scott for direction. “So what do we do?” 

Scott and Allison usher them off the ice, the four of them shedding their skates and slipping back into sneakers before they enter one of the rink’s dance studios. “Okay,” Allison says, hands on her hips, and Lydia can see she’s entered teacher mode again. “The main purpose of this is to learn how to react to each other’s bodies. When you’re on the ice, you have to be extensions of one another— move fluidly like one instead of two.” 

Lydia doesn’t say anything, but she looks over to meet Stiles’s eyes. He still looks a little bit like a caged animal, hopelessly overwhelmed and confused. 

“Relax,” she whispers to him as Allison and Scott discuss something in hushed tones. “It’s just a performance class, basically. And I’m not going to bite.” He quirks an eyebrow at her skeptically, but that panicky look in his amber eyes is gone, so she counts it as a victory. 

“Alright,” Allison says, her voice back at a normal volume, and with that, they start. 

Scott and Allison have them begin with something that almost seems like trust exercises— they’re back to back in the middle of the studio, leaning backwards into each other to support the other’s weight. “Okay, Lydia, slide down,” Allison instructs, and she obeys, pliéing more so that her shoulders are practically lined up with the small of Stiles’s back. She can feel her weight start to give, though; she’s way too short and her weight is suddenly too off-center for him to support. 

Lydia yelps as she tries to push off his back with her shoulder blades and stand back up, but Stiles hears her and moves to see what’s wrong, and she crumples. 

“Oh, shit,” Stiles says, diving after her to catch her before she lands on her ass. She’s not sure how he manages it; he does  _ not  _ seem coordinated enough to be able to catch her on such short notice, but his hands are underneath her arms and he’s hauling her back to her feet before she can fully process what’s happening. 

“Jesus, Lydia, I’m so sorry,” he says, his eyes wide and alarmed, and she can tell from his expression that he thinks she’s about to scream. Based on Scott and Allison’s wary looks, she would guess they’re assuming something along the same lines. Lydia sort of stands there, blinking in shock for a second, before she regains control of her body and bursts out laughing. 

The tension in the studio immediately dissipates, Allison and Scott joining in with her uncontrollable bouts of laughter. “It’s fine,” she says to Stiles, grinning at him, and the smile he gives her back, wide and warm, makes her heart speed up a little bit. The look on his face is one that he has very rarely directed at her over the past month, and staring at it now— Lydia wants to see him smile more, she decides. 

“Okay, so I am  _ way  _ too short to make that work,” Lydia says, turning back to Allison and Scott, a grin still playing at her lips. “What else do you have?” 

Allison and Scott direct them through more exercises, but the mood in the room has completely shifted— Stiles doesn’t seem nervous anymore; there’s a light in his eyes as they work on syncing up their breathing, leaning back into each other. She’s not sure if it’s the exercises or the soft smile on Stiles’s face as she runs her hands across his body, but she feels something humming through her fingers at every touch, an energy bubbling right below the surface. 

“No, Lydia, hold on,” Allison says, Stiles’s hand drifting from her cheek to her neck. “You have to direct his touch with your body. Stiles, you’ve got to hold her closer. Try to really  _ say  _ something with the way you’re touching her.” 

Stiles blinks at their friends, before his eyes flick back to Lydia; she can see him swallow as he steps marginally closer to her, one hand still hanging by his side as the other lingers on her cheek. His eyes are pure gold as they stare back into hers, his lips slightly parted as his hand begins to move again— he caresses her cheek before his palm slides down to rest against her neck, his long fingers briefly tangling in the curls at the nape of her neck that long ago escaped her ponytail. She blinks at him slowly, trying to channel her energy directly through the palm’s width worth of her skin that his hand covers; she focuses on making her body react to his touch, subtly leaning into his hand, feeling the warm weight of his palm against her bare skin. His hand drifts down over her shoulder to her bicep, and she shrugs her arm slightly to guide his hand to the side of her torso. She doesn’t miss his sharp intake of breath as his hand maps the contour of her waist, fingers brushing against bare skin exposed by the cutouts in the side of her leotard. His hand rests over her hip, solid and heavy, and she can feel the warmth of his touch as she pushes her body against his palm, like she’s surrendering herself to him. Electricity arcs through every cell in her body, heat spreading from Stiles’s grip on her hip, and  _ this  _ is what Allison was talking about— this connection between them, their bodies linked and their eyes locked on each other. It feels like they’re the only people in the  _ world  _ right now, the rest of the universe lost to them, caught up in this little bubble where every brush of Stiles’s fingers feels like it’s her source of life. 

“Wow,” Allison says, and when Lydia looks over to her best friend, she finds matching wonderstruck expressions on both Allison and Scott’s faces. “That looks  _ amazing.”  _

Lydia half expects the bubble around her and Stiles to shatter violently with the sudden reminder of the other people in the studio, but it somehow doesn’t. Stiles drops his hand from her waist, but when his fingers brush against hers as they both reach for the studio doorknob, or when his knee bumps hers when they both sit down to pack up their bags, she can still feel that energy from before. Scott and Allison take off, and Stiles bids her goodnight, and even when she’s back home, eating her nutritionist-approved protein-rich dinner, she can still feel the ghost of Stiles’s touch running down her body. 

That feeling remains as they take the ice the next day, and as they complete their short dance first thing in the morning for Derek and Braeden, it’s clear their coaches see the difference as well. 

“Wow,” Derek says, eyes still a little wide as he nods slowly. “I guess I have to let Allison play coach more often.” 

“Seriously,” Braeden says, nodding in agreement. “That looks  _ way  _ better, guys.” 

“Alright,” Derek says, his expression still a little baffled, but Lydia doesn’t miss that glint of pride in his eyes. “Let’s get started on your free dance.” 

They wait until their coaches have skated away, but when Lydia turns to Stiles, expressions on both of their faces giddy, she doesn’t even hesitate before she returns his high five.

***

The next two months pass in a blur, endless practices after practices, the days bleeding into one another. Lydia doesn’t think she’s ever worked as hard as she’s working right now, but she and Stiles are playing a game of catch up, and it’s one she’s determined to win. 

It’s surprising how easily Stiles slips into her life after their reconciliation. Their coffee shop meetups become a weekly thing, scheduled around pilates class with Allison, and they’ll both sit at a tiny table tucked in the back corner for an hour or two, chatting and laughing like old friends. The more they hang out, the more Lydia realizes how much she  _ enjoys  _ talking to him. Once he’s let his guard down around her a little bit, he’s clever and sarcastic and funny, quick witted with snarky replies and little quips. She finds herself laughing through most of their coffee sessions and smiling at his dumb jokes on the rink— a change in her usual stone-cold exterior that Allison picks up on. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” Allison immediately defends when she points it out to Lydia and is met with a steely gaze from her best friend. “I love that you two have figured it out. And I love seeing you so happy every morning walking into practice.” 

Allison is right— she  _ is  _ happy when she walks into the rink every morning at 6 am. Now that she and Stiles have found their rhythm, they’re making steady progress on both their programs, and Derek seems confident for them heading into Champs camp. It’s the best feeling in the  _ world,  _ to finally be back on track and heading straight for the Olympics. 

She finds herself looking forward to their weekly coffee dates more and more as time goes by, to the aimless conversations at that tiny little table. Lydia’s favorite thing about talking to Stiles is how he _listens_ to her, whether she’s complaining about a long day of practice or explaining complex mathematical theorems to him that he pretends to understand. Even when she’s minutes into an in-depth discussion of the Riemann hypothesis and she can _tell_ that he’s lost because he never took a math class above high school calculus, he still gives her his rapt attention, completely engrossed in what she’s explaining. “Isn’t this boring for you?” she finally asks at one point, because she’s been going on about non-trivial zeros for at least ten minutes and his attention has not wavered _once._ Stiles takes another sip of his coffee, shaking his head at her words. 

“No,” he assures her. “I like listening to you talk about math. It’s clear how much you love it.” 

“But it’s not annoying?” she demands, because he _must_ be bored. Jackson never let her talk about math— he would always groan and roll his eyes the moment she so much as mentioned the college classes she was taking. 

“Nope,” Stiles assures her, and the thing is, she can see in his eyes that he  _ means  _ it. He really is just perfectly content to let her ramble on about what she just learned in her Complex Analysis class, regardless of his comprehension of the subject. He shrugs again, finishing off his coffee. “As long as you don’t care that I don’t really understand what you’re talking about, I’m good.” 

It’s the things like  _ that  _ he does that take her breath away. 

Granted, now that he’s no longer scared she’s going to rip his head off, he’s much quicker to tease her or taunt her with sarcastic quips as well. That signature smirk of his graces his face more often than not, and Lydia finds that an exasperated eye roll, a grin playing at her lips, is something she’s doing more and more. 

“You know, you’re pretty fun to be around when you’re not being mean,” Stiles informs her on their third week of coffee get-togethers. She forgoes the eye roll at that, just arches an eyebrow at him in response as she sips her fat-free latte. He grins at her cheekily, that teasing glint in his eyes making his irises almost gold. “I knew that somewhere under that cold, lifeless exterior, you had an actual human soul.” 

“Wow, you really know how to charm a girl,” she responds, deadpan, shaking her head slightly at him. His smirk morphs into the most  _ gorgeous  _ smile, that one she only ever coaxes out of him occasionally, and she can’t help the way her heart flutters at the warmth in his gaze. Getting to see that smile is one of her favorite parts of actually getting along with Stiles. 

The days seem to go by faster and faster, but the rapid passage of time isn’t scaring Lydia as much as she had expected it to. Before she knows it, they’re barely a week away from Champs Camp, and she thinks she’s feeling  _ ready.  _ Champs camp is never necessarily her favorite thing— this sport is hard enough on your soul when you’re  _ not  _ being heavily criticised by a panel of twenty international judges face to face— but she knows that it’s a necessary step in the process. They’ll skate their programs for the judges, they’ll get the feedback they need to hear, whether they want to or not, and they’ll make their programs Olympic ready by the time their first competition of the season rolls around. 

The mid-August heat in Los Angeles is  _ stifling  _ at this point, and Lydia is almost excited to escape to Colorado Springs for half a week. Even at ten a.m, she’s drenched in sweat that is only partially due to the five miles she just ran. 

“Jesus… christ,” Stiles huffs next to her, coming to a halt, his body hunched over and his hands on his knees. She would laugh if she wasn’t out of breath, she thinks, pausing as well. 

“I hate running,” he says, finally straightening up to look at her. His forehead is sweaty, damp hair flopping across it. 

“You’re an Olympic athlete,” Lydia tells him, tugging at her ponytail, which was in much better shape  _ before _ they started their routine weekend jog around the park by her apartment. “Running is part of your conditioning plan.” 

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Stiles says, breath still labored. She just laughs as he takes a swig from his water bottle, running a hand through his sweaty hair and making it stick straight up. “I think Parrish is trying to torture me on my days off on purpose.” 

“There are no days off in the pursuit of Olympic gold,” Lydia reminds him with a smirk, because yeah, maybe they don’t go to the rink on Saturdays, but that doesn’t mean they can lay around all day and do nothing. 

Stiles pulls a face at her as they begin their cool down lap through the park, Lydia tugging the strap of her sports bra back in place as they walk. 

“Yeah, don’t remind me,” Stiles grumbles. “I haven’t eaten In-N-Out in, like, three months.” 

“We’ll go get burgers after we get back from PyeongChang,” Lydia promises. “And cheese fries.”

“I will settle for anything that isn’t high protein and nutritionally dense,” Stiles agrees. “Now I know how my dad feels when I force him to eat healthy. I always forget how much I miss curly fries during the season.” 

“Anything else on your post-Olympics wishlist?” Lydia asks, grinning. Stiles stays silent for a minute, like he’s really considering. 

“Obviously a four-by-four from In-N-Out,” he says, and Lydia just shakes her head at the fact that he is capable of eating those things. “Chocolate. I miss Reeses. And not having to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn.” 

“Hey, we get to sleep in on Thursday,” Lydia says. “Our flight doesn’t leave LAX until 11.” 

“I hate that waking up at seven thirty qualifies as ‘sleeping in,’” Stiles says, watching a little kid with a dog running down the path ahead of them. “What have our lives come to?” 

“You can sleep during the flight,” she says with a smirk, patting him on the arm. Stiles shrugs, as if that isn’t a horrible compromise. 

“I can’t believe we leave for Champs Camp in five days,” he says, his voice lower. “It seems like time flew by, didn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Lydia agrees, because they’ve been training so much that most of the days and weeks have completely blurred together for her. “But I think we’re ready.” She says the words with complete confidence, but there  _ is  _ still a tiny seed of doubt in her mind. Things are far from the rock-bottom that was May and June, but are they  _ really  _ ready to face the international judges? She’s not sure, and that terrifies her.

“Oh yeah,” Stiles agrees, meeting her eyes as he nods. “Those judges are gonna be so blown away they’ll just hand us over the gold medal then and there.” 

Lydia laughs at that, rolling her eyes at that all-too-familiar teasing expression on his face. “Yeah, I don’t think we can be  _ that  _ confident,” she says. “I know Morell told us we need to go into every competition with an optimistic outlook, but that might be taking it a little too far.” Stiles shrugs, like he doesn’t completely agree with the words of their professionally-trained mental prep coach. Derek’s been making them go to sessions together with Morell since early July, saying it would make them stronger as a team. 

“In all seriousness, though,” Stiles says, his eyes shifting down to hers quickly. “I think we’re ready. Right?” There’s a hesitance in his voice, an uncertainty in his eyes that Lydia can tell means he’s still not sure he’s up to her level. God, she wants to  _ kick  _ her past self for being so stubborn and saying those exact words to Stiles months ago. They would have had so much more time if she hadn’t been such an asshole to him. 

“Yeah,” Lydia responds, nodding decisively. She can’t let him know about her doubts, because she doesn’t want Stiles to think it’s because of  _ him. _ “We’re ready.” 

They arrive at LAX right before 9 on Thursday; Stiles still grumbles about having to wake up early to Scott as they wait in line for security. “Flight back from Colorado is at 6 in the morning, boys,” Braeden says with an arched eyebrow and a smirk. Stiles’s whole face drops, his expression suggesting someone murdered his puppy. “Count your blessings now.” 

By the time they make it through check-in and security (it always does take extra time for them to get the suitcases full of skates on the plane), it’s practically time for them to board. Allison demands the boys’ boarding passes to see what seat numbers they all have while they wander through one of the convenience stores, Lydia browsing their magazine selection. Today’s flight is practically a joke compared to some of the other flights they have lined up this season— France, Japan, and Korea in particular— but Lydia doesn’t do boredom well, especially when she’s already on edge about the looming feedback sessions of Champs Camp. 

“Perfect,” Allison says, handing Scott and Stiles their boarding passes back as Lydia buys herself the newest copy of National Geographic. “We’re already sitting in pairs, so Lydia, you can just swap with Stiles.” 

“You don’t want to sit with Scott?” Stiles asks, looking at her with raised eyebrows. Lydia finishes paying for her magazine, tucking her credit card back in her purse and following her friends back to the gate. 

“No,” Allison says as they walk, but Scott, unlike Stiles, seems very nonplussed by her declaration. He’s used to it by now, she thinks. “Lydia is my airplane buddy.” 

“So we get to sit next to each other?” Stiles asks Scott, his face suddenly lighting up. “Nice, dude!” 

Derek and Braeden are waiting for them at the gate, rolling their eyes at Scott and Stiles’s enthusiastic high five. “We’re starting to board,” Derek says, ushering his students towards the gate, his wife bringing up the rear. Stiles grabs Lydia’s bag to stow it overhead for her once they’re on the plane, despite her protests. 

“You don’t have to do that,” she says half heartedly, because Stiles is already sliding her carry on in the overhead compartment cheerfully. 

“No worries. Where’s your seat supposed to be?” he asks, as Scott and Allison stow their bags as well. She points wordlessly— he and Scott are just across the aisle from her and Allison. 

Derek and Braeden are a few rows back, Lydia can see, and both of them already have headphones in, tuning out the commotion around them. Lydia doesn’t blame them— they’ve been on this plane about five minutes and already, Scott and Stiles have begun acting like  _ children.  _

“I’m starting to feel guilty for being the reason they’re sitting together,” Allison whispers to Lydia, nodding her head towards their partners, who are currently scrolling through the free movie selection for the flight and adding very  _ loud  _ commentary. “I feel like we owe everyone sitting around us an apology.” 

Lydia nods grimly, the two girls watching as Stiles’s jaw drops. “Scott, they have _Star Wars_ on here!” he literally gasps, his eyes so wide it’s almost comical. “Holy shit, we _have_ to watch it.” 

“Stiles, I’m not watching Star Wars,” Scott returns, his tone much more exasperated than usual. “No way.” 

“Come on, Scotty,” Stiles begs, staring his friend down indignantly. “It physically _pains_ me that you’ve never seen these movies. This is the perfect opportunity to get you caught up on the greatest cinematic masterpiece to ever be created.” 

“No, dude,” Scott insists again. 

“But—” Stiles begins, his voice gaining volume, before Allison cuts off their squabbles with a look that could kill. 

“Boys,” she says, in a very no-nonsense tone. “You know I love you both. But if you don’t start acting like adults this second and _behave_ yourselves for the rest of this flight, I will personally murder you both and _Lydia_ and I will skate together this season.” 

That seems to sober both Scott and Stiles up immediately. 

The plane takes off without incident, Scott and Stiles talking in much more hushed tones after Allison’s warning. They both fall asleep once they reach cruising altitude, Stiles’ pillow pressed up against the window and Scott’s head on his shoulder. Lydia almost laughs at how young they look— she can just picture them as ten year olds, slumped together in the back of one of their parents’ minivans as they made the hour long trek to the rink before the break of dawn. 

She tries to sleep too— really, she does. Next to her, Allison has her headphones in, eyes closed as she leans back in her seat. Lydia can’t tell if she’s asleep or not, but she looks perfectly calm, like she’s starting to enter that zen, pre-competition headspace. Lydia tries to follow suit, the  _ Pride and Prejudice  _ soundtrack playing through her earpods, but that calm, centered feeling is escaping her completely. 

She’s always a little on edge going into Champs Camp, but generally it’s matched with a fierce determination and the unwavering knowledge that she is completely prepared for this. She knows she keeps telling people she’s ready for this season, but there’s no denying the fact that she feels _not_ ready. With a new partner by her side and routines that _definitely_ still need substantial work, she feels less ready than ever. Skating with Stiles has definitely gotten better, and their new partnership has definitely pushed them both as skaters, but still— Stiles isn’t Jackson. And even though she’s still _considerably_ mad at her ex-partner, she’s never been to a Champs Camp without him. He’s familiar to her, and Stiles is still sort of uncharted territory. 

And she can still hear Jackson’s words in her mind, as sharp as blades.  _ I want that gold medal more than anything, and clearly I’m not going to get it with you. If I want to win that gold, I need to cut out some of the dead weight in my life.  _ She’s almost convinced herself those words are false over the past three months, but there’s still that nagging thread of doubt that believes his accusations. 

“Relax,” Lydia hears, and she glances over at her seatmate; Allison still has her headphones in and her eyes closed, but she reaches over and takes Lydia’s hand without hesitation. “Don’t let yourself freak out over this,” Allison continues, squeezing her best friend’s fingers. “You’re ready.” 

“Easier said than done,” Lydia mutters, glancing across the aisle. Scott and Stiles are both still blissfully asleep. Apparently she’s the only one that the pressure is getting to. 

Allison opens her eyes, waking up her phone to pause her music, and when Lydia sees  _ The Umbrellas of Cherbourg  _ soundtrack on her screen, she realizes maybe that isn’t true. 

“Hey,” Allison says, voice still quiet. She turns in her seat so she’s facing Lydia, her hand still squeezing hers tightly. “You’ve got this, okay? You are the best ice dancer I know. Even if it isn’t perfect, or the performance you want, I know you’ll take that feedback and make your programs even better.” 

“I hope so,” Lydia says. There’s still an uneasiness that she can’t quite shake, this looming feeling of dread that won’t leave her alone. Allison’s brow furrows, like she can read Lydia’s mind. 

“What is it?” Allison asks, and Lydia sighs. She’s not exactly sure how to word it. 

“Jackson and I came in second at worlds last year,” Lydia says. “And we were some of the favorites for gold at the Olympics this year. And he _still_ left me.” She pauses, worrying her lip. “I don’t know. I don’t care what people think, really, but I know all the reporters are going to ask is why we’re not skating together anymore. I don’t even know if it’s really public knowledge that we’re not skating together anymore.” She buries her face in her hands, because she feels so _dumb_ right now. “I just don’t want to relive that all week. And I don’t want people to think what _he_ thought. That I’m not good enough.” 

“They’re not going to think that, Lydia,” Allison says, a hand on her shoulder. “Okay? Because you’re  _ amazingly  _ talented. And you’re ready for this.” 

“I keep telling people that,” Lydia says, looking down. “That I’m ready. I don’t know if it’s true.” 

“Well,  _ I _ know you are,” Allison says, squeezing her hand. There’s a teasing hint to her grin as she continues. “So stop doubting yourself and listen to your best friend.” 

Lydia can’t help but laugh at that. “Okay.” 

“You’ve got this,” Allison assures her again. “Seriously. You and Stiles… you’re good together. You’ve only been skating with him three months, and I can see it already.” 

“Really?” Lydia asks, because she hates to admit that’s one of her biggest fears, but it is. Even though they’ve been getting along— Lydia would even dare say they’re _friends_ now— there’s still an uncertain newness to their partnership. And she’s scared still that it won’t be enough to get them the gold. 

“Really,” Allison assures her. “I’ve been watching during practice.” Her expression shifts, her smile soft as she looks at Lydia. “You make each other better.” 

Lydia looks over across the aisle, where her partner is still sleeping, his face squished into his pillow. She thinks of how she matches his strokes now, how they connect out on the ice, how her edges have gotten deeper because of him. How she’s had to learn to be the more technical partner, to play off his artistry. How Stiles has had to learn more intricate footwork than he’s ever done before. How these past few months have been some of the hardest of her  _ life,  _ and yet. She still feels like they’ve come so far in the little time they’ve been together.

_ Yeah, _ she thinks, eyes still fixed on her partner. He shifts in his sleep a little, his eyebrows scrunching up in a way that Lydia can’t help but find endearing.

Maybe they  _ do  _ make each other better. 

***

The brief moment of zen that Lydia gained on the flight is gone as soon as they touch down in Colorado Springs. 

The closer they get to the hotel, the more the anxiety seems to seep in. It’s like the past three months at the rink have been this shiny, isolated bubble where the rest of the world couldn’t touch them, couldn’t see their situation or their mistakes and judge them unfairly, and all of a sudden, that bubble is seconds away from bursting forever. 

Lydia’s not sure she’s equipped to deal with that.

They have a full day of practice before they actually show their routines to any judges, but even this feels different than sharing ice at the rink at home. The other top US teams are here too, running all their dances, and even though Lydia  _ knows  _ they’re on par with the other skaters, that Derek would never let them walk into Champs Camp unprepared, she can’t help the fear coursing through her as they step out onto the ice with those other teams for the first time. 

Practice seems to make her nerves even  _ worse.  _ She’s used to seeing Scott and Allison’s routine, but she watches the other teams practice beautiful lifts and flawless twizzles, glide through complex step sequences effortlessly, and she can feel herself unravelling even more. 

_ Knock it off,  _ she tries to command herself.  _ You came in second in the  _ world  _ ahead of all of these pairs last year. You have nothing to be nervous of. You are here to win, and they all know it.  _

Still, she’s finding her words harder to believe and Jackson’s much easier. 

Luckily there’s no press the first night— they’ll save all the interviews and banquets and photoshoots for the following days of Champs Camp. Lydia doesn’t even want to think about what state she’d be in if she had to spend the entire night before their short dance talking about her change in partnership. 

By the time it’s their turn to skate their short program for the judges, Lydia’s nerves are completely shot. Stiles holds her hand as they wait next to the boards, and she can tell from the way his other hand drums against his thigh that he’s nervous too.  _ Stop it,  _ she scolds herself again.  _ You know this program. You have nothing to worry about. Just go out there and skate like you know you can.  _

Lydia still can’t shake the nerves as they take the ice, the arena silent as they assume their starting positions, her heart feeling like it’s ready to beat out of her chest. Stiles squeezes her hand reassuringly, and she closes her eyes briefly, willing her body to relax, her mind to focus on just the dance ahead of them. Sure, there are twenty or so international judges in the bleachers, watching down on them, ready to tear their program to pieces, but if they want to get to the Olympics, they need the best possible routine, and this is the way they make sure they have it. Still, even if they’re not being scored or actually competing for a medal, Lydia can’t help but feel overwhelmed. These judges might tell them their programs are brilliant and Olympic ready, but they could also tell them that their skates are disastrous and there’s not a chance in hell they’ll ever get that gold. Not that that reaction is _likely—_ Lydia not sure she’s ever actually seen them tell someone to scrap everything— but her nerve-wracked brain can’t help but go to the place where that deep, dark fear lurks. 

All she can think about is Jackson’s rejection. She doesn’t think she can handle hearing words like those again on someone else’s lips. 

“Hey,” Stiles whispers to her, his amber eyes wide, and she can tell it’s sort of hitting him too, that this is the first time they’re skating together in front of someone who’s  _ not  _ Derek. This is the penultimate moment for their partnership— in three minutes, they’ll find out if all they’ve done the past three months will help them get that gold, or if it was all for nothing. 

“We can do this,” Stiles tells her, and it sounds more like he’s reassuring himself than her, but she appreciates his words all the same. She nods at him quickly, squeezing his hand one more time before he drops it, the two of them assuming their starting positions. 

The music starts, and Lydia tries to let autopilot take over, moving through the dance like it’s the only thing in the world she knows. She still can’t get a grip on her nerves, though, so they fumble some sections, and she knows their twizzles are a little bit off and the transition into their lift is kind of sloppy; they’ve skated it  _ much  _ better in practice before. By the time they hit their final poses, she’s out of breath and exhausted, muscles aching, chest heaving. She has a list of things in the dance that need to be improved about as long as her arm already in her head, but she smiles regardless, pretending she’s somewhat proud of the skate they just had. 

_ Considering you’ve only been on speaking terms with Stiles about two months and your brain is apparently incapable of overcoming its fear of failure at the moment, that wasn’t that bad,  _ she assures herself.  _ With more cleaning and practice, it’ll be in much better shape.  _

She knows she’s sort of lying to herself, but at this point, making it through the skate at all is better than nothing. 

“We did it,” Stiles says, taking her hand and squeezing it as they skate over to the boards, where Derek and Braeden are waiting, the flock of judges all scribbling down notes still. Lydia shrugs in a way that lets him know she does not think she did a good job, refusing to meet his eyes, but she squeezes his hand back in exchange anyways. Still, there’s a weight off her shoulders now, their first skate under their belt— it can only go up from here, right? If she can make it through this feedback session and get her damn nerves in check, they can do _much_ better in the free dance tomorrow. 

She’s still out of breath as they come to a halt next to the boards, heart still beating too fast, and she gratefully accepts the water bottle Braeden is offering. “Not bad,” her coach says, tilting her head like she’s deciding what to say next. Lydia doesn’t need to hear the words from her coach’s mouth to understand what she’s thinking though—  _ it wasn’t bad, but it needs to be better.  _

Lydia prepares herself for the assault as the judges shuffle around, finishing notes and moving towards the boards to talk to her and Stiles. Derek shoots her a reassuring look, and she closes her eyes again, briefly, trying to remind herself that this is going to make her better. 

“Okay,” one of the judges starts, lips pursed, like she has a  _ lot  _ to say. “It’s a solid routine. Definitely getting there. But I have some notes.” 

Lydia forces herself to focus as judge after judge criticize the program, picking it apart and putting it back together again. She nods along to their notes, cataloguing them away in her brain, while Derek and Braeden write things down, humming along in agreement. The execution of their lift gets  _ massacred,  _ as she expected, and the twizzles too are under heavy fire. One Russian judge goes through every single movement of their midline step sequence, another critiquing their rhumba pattern step, and Lydia nods in agreement with their notes, trying to absorb everything they’re throwing at her like she isn’t living in her worst nightmare right now.

The truth of the matter is, she  _ knows  _ this sort of criticism is necessary to have strong programs going into the season, and she  _ knows  _ they have so much to still improve upon, but it still hurts like hell to be systematically torn down by a group of people who will ultimately decide the worth of their skating all season long. 

_ You’re not good enough,  _ is all she can hear in her head, with every single one of their comments. 

“Now, performance,” that Russian judge says, and Lydia’s head turns towards her, already nodding to show she’s listening. “It made me feel…  _ nothing.  _ No heat, no passion. It’s rhumba, yes?” Stiles hums in confirmation, even though it’s a rhetorical question. “You have to make audience _ feel.” _

“I agree,” another judge cuts in, British this time. “You two look tired out there, like you still don’t know what you’re doing. I know you’re a new pair, but you’re skating to rock and roll, yeah? You’ve got to look like you’re having fun. You’ve got to make it look more effortless.” 

_ Well, there’s not really any part of being spun through the air at breakneck speeds while being held up solely by your legs around your partner’s neck and centripetal force that is effortless, but okay,  _ Lydia thinks pettily. She knows the judges are right, she does. She just… wishes they weren’t.

“I think there could be a flirty, fun energy to this music selection, and to this piece,” another judge agrees. “And you’re just completely lacking that right now. The way you react to each other’s touch is great, but it has to be more than that. Aside from the technical improvements, I think you really need to figure out the energy and the emotion of this piece and get that across to the audience.” He pauses, studying the two of them. “This has the potential to be a real crowd pleaser, to really get the audience engaged and excited. But right now, it’s just lacking that completely.” 

Lydia nods in agreement, feeling a little hollow inside. She tries to listen to the rest of their notes, she really does, but something in her just— breaks, a little. Derek and Braeden continue talking back and forth with the judges, making notes, debating over certain elements, but Lydia finds it’s becoming harder and harder to listen to their conversation. She tries to exhale in relief subtly as the judges finish their comments, handing written notes off to their coaches, but Stiles hears her, looking over at her with concern etched all over his features. She doesn’t meet his eyes again, _can’t_ meet his eyes, because she’s scared if she does she’ll burst into tears, but he squeezes her hand anyway, letting her know he’s there. 

The second they’re released Lydia is off the ice, taking her skate guards from Derek wordlessly, slipping them on in a haste and rushing to the locker rooms. She’s already halfway through unlacing one of her skates by the time the door opens again, Stiles following behind her. 

He sits down next to her on the bench wordlessly, plucking at the laces on his skate as well. Lydia inhales, slowly, deliberately, trying to quell that overwhelmed feeling that’s rising up inside her right now. She hears her breath shake, though, catching in her throat as she breathes in, and she squeezes her eyes shut in defeat, determined not to show how rattled she is. 

Stiles doesn’t buy it. 

“Lydia,” he says, voice soft, and she can’t see him, but she can sense him sitting up, forgetting about his skates, can see the concern etched on his face. She refuses to open her eyes, tries to regain her composure, but he places his hand on her thigh, soft and comforting, and she just…  _ breaks.  _

“You okay?” he asks her, and she finally opens her eyes, turning her head to look at him. She can tell by the expression on his face that his question was just a formality, that he already knows something’s not right with her. She sighs shakily, her body shuddering, and Stiles’s expression somehow becomes  _ more  _ soft, his eyes lightening as he stares back at hers. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his thumb rubbing back and forth across her knee subconsciously. She doesn’t know how to answer his question without sounding  _ dumb,  _ because she’s literally upset about something that is the  _ purpose  _ of Champs Camp, but she can’t deny that the judges’ criticism had cut her deep, preying on her biggest fears and driving them home. 

Sure, she had had her doubts coming into Champs Camp, hadn’t necessarily thought they were a hundred percent ready, but she had thought they’d had pretty solid programs. Now, with all the judges’ criticism fresh in her mind, she feels dizzy and discombobulated, like she wiped out on the ice, or something. All she can hear in her head is Jackson’s voice, that condescending note to his tone, chanting over and over again that she’s  _ not good enough, not good enough, not good enough.  _

_ How did you ever think you would make it to the Olympics?  _ his voice demands.  _ I left you for a reason, Lydia. And that reason is you’re never going to get there.  _

She’s spent the last couple months trying to convince herself his parting words weren’t true, but now, Lydia can’t help but really believe him again. 

“Lydia,” Stiles says, his tone shifting, sounding much more no-nonsense now. She stands up, unable to look at him, and buries her face in her palms. “Hey,” Stiles says, voice gentler. She can’t see him, but she hears him stand up next to her, feels his fingers on her wrists, gently prying her hands away from her face. 

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he tells her, and she blinks at him, a little taken aback that he doesn’t even need her to tell him what’s wrong to know. “Okay? They’re just trying to make us better. They don’t mean it personally. It’s just feedback.” 

“I know,” she says, exhaling, voice still a little shaky. “I know I’m being dumb. I know they’re just trying to help us improve.” She pauses, debating for a split second whether or not to say the next part, to let Stiles know how behind her perfect facade, she is  _ not  _ as confident and put together as she appears.

It only takes one look in his eyes to know that he already is starting to see past her false front, is starting to break through her walls, bit by bit, without any judgement of what he sees on the other side. So she keeps talking. 

“I just… it’s generally not like this. I generally don’t get  _ that  _ much negative feedback.” Stiles should tense, should think she’s dissing him in this moment, but his expression doesn’t waver at all, his hands still loosely grasping her wrists, fingers warm against her skin. “It’s making me feel like I  _ can’t  _ do this,” she whispers. “That this is all a waste. That I’m not good enough.” 

_ That’s  _ when Stiles’s expression shifts, but the anger in his eyes isn’t at her. “Hey,” he says, more certain, less gentle. “No. Not at  _ all.  _ Don’t think that, okay? You  _ can  _ do this. If anyone can, Lydia, it’s you.” 

He pauses, one of his hands dropping her wrist, moving up and down, running over her arm in long, soothing strides. “Look, we got a _lot_ of constructive feedback, which, don’t get me wrong, felt shitty. But we’re going to take that, and Derek and Braeden are going to come up with a plan, and we’re going to become better because of it. Okay? And by the time we get to the Olympics, these judges won’t have a single negative thing to say.” 

“That is  _ highly  _ unlikely,” Lydia says, a weak smile playing at her lips. Stiles laughs, rolling his eyes affectionately, but she can see the relief in them, that she’s returned from the brink. 

“Work with me here, okay?” he asks, and she can’t help but laugh back. That’s all it takes for him to smile, wide and bright, and before she knows what’s happening he’s pulling her into his arms, hugging her tight. 

She sort of freezes, taken aback by the sudden presence of his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. But then she blinks, and subconsciously, slips her arms around Stiles in return. It’s the first time they’ve ever hugged, she realizes, which seems like a  _ ridiculous  _ notion based solely upon how they skate together on the ice— there’s a part where she sits in Stiles’s lap and his teeth practically scrape her neck, for the love of god— but this is nice, she thinks. Gentler. Simpler. More pure. This is just her and Stiles, no performance, no audience. He’s not playing a part here, he’s just being her skating partner. Being there for her, and comforting her when she needs it most, even if she can’t admit it. 

“Don’t worry about it, Lydia,” he insists again, one hand running up and down her back soothingly, before coming to a stop at the base of her neck, holding her head against his chest softly. “We’re gonna get there. I know we are.” 

She could argue, but she finds that she really doesn't want to. She wants to believe Stiles in this moment, so… she just does. 

They’ll get there. They will. And there will be bad performances along the way, disastrous practices and botched routines, but they’re going to make it; she’s suddenly certain of it. 

“Come on,” Stiles says, disentangling their arms and stepping away. “Let’s get our skates off, get all this press over with, and get some rest before the free skate tomorrow.” 

Lydia nods in agreement, and when she wordlessly sits down next to him again on the bench, hunching over to undo her laces, she feels so much lighter inside. 

***

Lydia _always_ forgets how draining the rest of Champs Camp is, even after they’re finished skating, until she’s there, being thrown into press conferences and photo shoots left and right. She’s right about one thing— _everyone_ wants to know why Jackson and she split; it’s practically the first question out of every reporter’s mouth. She just smiles, puts up her false front and gives them the scripted answer she and Derek had come up with last week: they both mutually decided that in order to push themselves as skaters, their partnership needed to end. She spares them the details of him walking out on her and fleeing to Michigan to his shiny new partner and shiny new coaches— she doesn’t want _anyone_ to know how much that day wrecked her, besides the five people she came here with. 

Once the press part of the weekend is over, she finds she can breathe again— she feels more settled at practices after talking with Stiles post short dance, and the two of them do a couple photoshoots with Scott and Allison, which are endlessly fun. Still, while Lydia doesn’t  _ mind  _ doing interviews and photoshoots, she would much rather be where she is right now— laughing with Stiles, Scott, and Allison during the sponsorship dinner, tucked away at a table towards the back of the room, in their own little bubble. 

Not that she doesn’t mingle. She did win silver at Worlds last year, anyways, and Lydia is an _expert_ mingler. She drags an unwilling Stiles around with her for most of the night, chatting animatedly with the different skaters and US Figure Skating Association members, socializing, assuring everyone that they’re ready for the upcoming season. She finds that she’s beginning to mean those words more and more with every time she says them. By the time she crawls into her bed that night, Allison yawning as she pulls back the covers on the opposite side of the room, her feelings of self doubt from earlier in the weekend are gone, and Stiles’s words of reassurance have put her in a _much_ better state of mind. 

She feels almost confident as they take the ice the next afternoon, ready to perform their free dance for the judges panel. This routine needs more work, she knows— with all the weeks spent playing catch up, the time they had to dedicate to this dance was less than ideal— but this is their starting point, and the judges are going to help make it better. Derek and Braeden are waiting by the boards as they glide out to their beginning spots, and Lydia meets Stiles’s eyes just as the music begins, matching his little reassuring grin with one of her own. 

Their skate doesn’t go  _ perfectly,  _ but it doesn't go badly, either, so Lydia feels relatively satisfied when they hit their ending poses. She knows their twizzles were off and they still need to work on popping their lifts, and get their footwork cleaner, more in sync, but it’s a pretty decent performance. She grabs Stiles’s hand as they skate for the boards, still out of breath, but he squeezes her hand back when he laces his fingers through hers, and she feels more settled inside. 

The judges are silent as they come to a halt next to them, shuffling papers, finishing notes. Lydia feels anticipation flutter in her stomach, bracing herself for the onslaught of critique. She’s determined to handle it better this time, to stop feeling so self-doubting and just hear their comments as ways to improve, like a true professional would.

It’s the American judge who speaks first, looking up apprehensively, eyes darting between Stiles and Lydia, and Derek and Braeden. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, eyebrows arched. “But that routine is  _ not  _ going to get you an Olympic medal.” 

And with those words, Lydia can feel her stomach  _ drop.  _

It shouldn’t be able to get worse, but somehow, it  _ does.  _

“I agree,” another judge seconds. He looks at Derek again, before his eyes flit back to Lydia and Stiles. “You don’t seriously think you can bring that program to the Olympics and win.”

Criticism, Lydia was prepared for, but this? This is something that even her darkest  _ nightmares  _ couldn’t come up with. 

Any hopes she’d had to take the judges’ criticism professionally and use it to help improve is out the window; everything around her has faded to white noise, her ears ringing, eyes fixed on Derek as he absorbs what the judges are saying. His expression is one she’s never seen grace her coach’s face, not in ten whole  _ years  _ under him: shock, confusion, disbelief. He looks completely taken aback, and under normal circumstances, Lydia would probably feel marginally better that Derek is as caught off guard as she is, but right now— right now, she can’t think. She can’t process. The only thing that seems real at  _ all  _ to her is Stiles’s hand in hers, fingers squeezing hers almost uncomfortably too tight. She can’t bring herself to look at his face, because she  _ knows  _ the expression she’ll find there, and if she has to see that look in his wide amber eyes, she thinks she might break. 

She honestly doesn’t have a clue what the judges say for the rest of their session. Lydia nods along silently, hoping that they don’t catch on to the fact that she is not comprehending a word they say. Her heart is still in overdrive as they finish up, Derek nodding in thanks, ushering his skaters off the ice; she thinks that the sound of her heart pounding is the only noise she can hear anymore, filling up the empty locker room as they take off their skates in silence, pressing up against them in the wordless car ride back to the hotel, occupying every space in the silent elevator, making the space seem even smaller. They have a _hellishly_ early flight the next morning, so Allison, luckily, goes right to bed after returning from her dinner with Scott. Lydia pretends she’s going to turn in early too, but as she lays in her bed in the dark, heart still _thundering,_ she knows that there’s no way in hell she’s ever going to be able to drift off. 

Honestly, she’s still not completely sure that she’s not just caught in some freakish nightmare right now, and that this entire day has been a bad dream sent directly from hell. 

All she can hear as she lays in bed, darkness surrounding her, suffocating her, is that judge’s words. 

_ You don’t seriously think you can bring that program to the Olympics and win.  _

Lydia’s had her fair share of doubtfulness this season; there was a time a couple months ago where she couldn’t go a  _ day  _ without thinking her Olympic goals were shattering. But this— this is something completely different. This feels like the final nail in the coffin. Because really, she doesn’t know how the  _ hell  _ they’re going to fix this. 

She doesn’t sleep a bit that night, her heart still pounding as the six of them board their flight in the morning. Derek’s expression is bizarre mix of grim and disbelieving, like the feedback yesterday still hasn’t really hit him either. She can tell, though, just from the look in his eyes— he, too, has  _ no  _ idea what they’re going to do to fix this. 

Lydia takes her seat on the plane wordlessly, heart thundering, mind racing, white noise still buzzing in her ears. There’s only one thought coming to mind, and try as she might, she can’t push it away, can’t deny it, because it’s terrifyingly  _ true.  _

They are totally, horrifically  _ fucked.  _


End file.
